


High in the Halls

by CelticPixie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Fingerfucking, Friends to Lovers, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Light Angst, Love Confessions, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Oral Sex, Post - Game of Thrones (TV), Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Secret Relationship, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 77,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelticPixie/pseuds/CelticPixie
Summary: High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts. The ones she had lost and the ones she had found...and the ones who had loved her the most~.~.~.~“Every heart sings a song, incomplete until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.”– Plato
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Jaime Lannister & Podrick Payne & Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne/Sansa Stark
Comments: 108
Kudos: 118
Collections: A Song Of Ice And Fire and Game Of Thrones, Game Of Thrones Fanfics, Game Of Thrones Romance, Game of Thrones RarePairs., Oathkeepers Secret Santa 2019





	1. Dance With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neverwithaknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverwithaknight/gifts).



> When coming up with ideas for a Secret Santa gift exchange – and realizing I have little to no artistic talent… so a fanvid, edit, and/or maniup was out of the question – I mentally ran through a list of things I could present until I considered a one-shot fanfic in order to combine the two pairings my giftee likes: Jaime/Brienne and Podrick/Sansa—the later, of which, is not an overly popular pairing but one I deeply appreciated. After some deliberating, I came up with, what I believe, is the perfect answer.
> 
> This is a Secret Santa gift for neverwithaknight :)

The Godswood is a small wooded area, enclosed within castle walls, a place of worship and meditation by those who carry on the traditions of the First Men. At the center is a heart tree, usually a weirwood tree. Every castle in the north has a weirwood tree. South of the Neck, most of these trees were cut down or burnt several years ago; the Isle of Faces possesses a significant number, and many southern castles still have these Weirwood trees; the Red Keep is a rather recent castle and thus has no Weirwood tree; instead, the heart tree is a great oak covered in smokeberry wines that overlooks the Blackwater Rush.  
  
It is here where Ser Jaime Lannister, Hand of the King, and Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lady Commander of the Royal Guard (not Kingsguard or Queensguard, because both Jon and Daenerys ruled together), came to exchange their vows. Septon Joseth was leading the ceremony. After Jaime was asked to cloak his bride and bring her under the protection of his house, the sermon began: _We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever_. Jaime and Brienne held hands, standing side by side.

The Septon continued; _Let it be known that Ser Jaime of House Lannister and Ser Brienne of House Tarth are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder._ He then tied their joined hands with a ribbon that symbolized their union. _In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity._

Standing just off center was Ser Podrick. He followed his Lady Commander loyally for many years even in times she grew impatient with him – which was very often, originally – and sometimes he was more of hinderance than a help—like the time he couldn’t ride his horse properly or the time he accidentally set fire to a rabbit they were cooking…she tried getting rid of him on more than one occasion -- but he always took his duties to her very seriously. Though honored and proud to be a part of such an elite group of knights who serve as the royal bodyguard of the King of the Andals and the First Men, and thinking he finally found himself a home with belonging—he just felt like there was something… missing.

_Look upon one another and say the words…_

The bride and groom turned, standing facing each other, and recited their vows. First, they say the names of the Seven, speaking simultaneously: _Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…_

Podrick’s eyes wandered. He didn’t mean for them to. But at the very moment when Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne exchanged their vows, he was looking anywhere but at them; those brown eyes of his wandered from the bride and groom, to the other Lords and Ladies, and finally to just one person: Her Grace, the Lady Sansa Stark, Queen in the North.

After this, it was time to recite their vows. While the groom is saying his words— _I am hers and she is mind. From this day, until the end of my days_ —the bride is saying _I am his and he is mind. From this day, until the end of my days_.

After the exchange of vows, Jaime turned away from the Septon, with Brienne’s hand still clasped and tied to his own, and they faced the crowd. And then he announced, _with this kiss, I pledge my love_ and in front of all those in attendance, Jaime and Brienne shared a kiss as man and wife. The roar of ovation snapped Podrick from his day-dream.

With his attention turned, he didn’t see, he _couldn’t_ see, the red-haired Northern queen stealing a brief glance his way and that distant look swimming in her eyes…

Sometime after the actual ceremony, everyone whisked themselves inside for the festivities. Seating arrangements remained practical; the King and Queen at the head of the Great Hall, besieged by Jaime and Brienne—to their right were Tyrion and Davos, and to their left were Bronn and Varys. There was Lord Gendry Baratheon, of course, seated close enough to the front, and members from House Arryn, House Tully, House Martell, House Lannister, and even House Greyjoy; Yara wasn’t for the fanciness of the wedding itself but she was more than happy to indulge in a good ale after the fact.

And then there was Sansa Stark. The travails she endured in the years to come had made her stronger and more mature; caring much less for the traditional views she once loved.

Standing far enough away from the crowd, Podrick casually observed as everyone partook in the celebration and festivities. He was cheerful, kind and a well-meaning young man, who was always so eager to please others, but he was also shy and awkward. While everyone else was mingling, he had withdrawn. Maybe it was better this way though. 

His absence had not gone overlooked. While visually perusing the room, Gendry took notice of the young man standing so far from everyone. Grabbing a second mug of ale, he got up from the table and decided he was going to join the timid knight.

Podrick saw him coming, thought maybe he could avoid the Baratheon, but no. Next thing he knew, there was a mug of ale thrusted into his hand. “I admit I haven’t attended many marriages before…actually, this is my second one…,” he said, “but is it normal for the bride’s Man of Honor to be so recluse?” He took a swig of his own ale, still maintaining his eye contact with Podrick, who was looking from him to his own mug, casually running his fingers along the rim.

“Someone needs to stand guard,” he answered, though he knew it wasn’t the truthful answer; maybe he wasn’t ready to admit the truthful answer, “As a Royal Guardsman, it is my duty to…” He glanced up from his ale for a brief moment but that might have just been enough for him. Podrick sighed, looking over to where _she_ sat. “i-in case something goes… wrong..”

Gendry mocked offense; “There’s the City Watch for that.” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder, causing Podrick to briefly lose balance and a slosh of ale over the mug’s rim. “Drink up, Ser Knight! This is a celebration and you should be celebrating!” His mug clinked with Podrick’s before he himself took a swig.

“One of us should remain sober at least. Besides—” he looked down quietly, “—I don’t think I ever cared for the taste of ale.” He didn’t see the look of mock-disappointment on Gendry’s face.

“…you seem to have you fill of it at Winterfell.”

“That was wine.”

Gendry briefly pursed his lips, then continued, “Well, we all need to start somewhere…so…go on then…” He stood silent whilst observing the younger lad, who still eyed the mug of ale suspiciously, before a sigh passed his lips and he braved a drink. As the sweet, full-bodied beverage entered Podrick’s throat, the knight sputtered and coughed hard. Gendry smirked, once again clapping the knight on his back. “Easy now. That’s it.”

 _Cough_. “I think…” _Cough_. “…I’ve had…” _Cough_. “…enough…” _Cough_. He attempted to push the mug back at Gendry, but Gendry wasn’t having it, and even shook his head, shoving his hand against the mug to resist, almost earning a scowl. “Seven Hells. I can’t.”

“By the GODS you are boring!” Gendry rolled his eyes; Podrick didn’t seem offended by the remark. The ale in Podrick’s hands remained untouched, but Gendry gladly helped himself to another swig of his own. Momentarily, his gaze wandered and in doing so… he noted _exactly_ what was getting Podrick so distracted. Smirking, he looked back at the knight, whose eyes weren’t ahead of him anymore but staring downward. “…I get it now…”

As if caught doing something he shouldn’t, Podrick’s head snapped up; “G-Get what now…?” All of a sudden, he felt as though the room around him was spinning. That couldn’t be possible; he didn’t have _that_ much of his drink.

“What’s got you so…distracted. How long has it been?” Gendry stared, practically revealing in the look he was given upon mention of the Northern Queen by name, as if saying so was either a shock he was so informal, or he caught the knight red-handed.

Podrick coughed, trying to hide his embarrassment that he’d been caught with a lingering gaze. “Oh! She’s…Sansa—she’s just…” his voice broke as he struggled because even as he thought of her, he was thinking of when they first met as teens and she wanted nothing to do with him. Friend, he wanted to say _she is my friend_.

“You fancy her,” Gendry told him, matter-of-factly, very blunt and direct.

His cheeks reddened. “W-what? N-no! I do not…fancy her…!” He was doing it again. Stumbling over words when he was flustered. It happened every time he ever got nervous about something or someone. Gendry was laughing, which irritated him slightly. “What? I don’t fancy her.” And Gendry gave him one of those _uh-huhs_ that made it obvious he wasn’t buying it; the all-knowing stare he gave the knight over the rim of his ale mug was telling enough.

“Oh yes you do,” Gendry countered. He knew that familiar look in Podrick’s eyes; he once had that same look about Arya. Before Podrick could protest differently, again, Gendry spoke up. “Listen, I get it. I felt the same way about Arya. Her sister is a beautiful woman..”

Podrick caved; “She is but…it’s not about her looks. It’s never _been_ about that…”

And Gendry listened as Podrick regaled him in how he and Sansa met as teenagers, how he had been fascinated with her since then, how he’d never admit that Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion was a little heartbreaking—he couldn’t say anything, of course; he was Tyrion’s squire.

He never once believed _Sansa_ could ever be interested in someone like him. Despite being from a noble house himself, his family was a rather impoverished cadet branch. 

_I’m not worthy of her_ , he’d think often.

As if Gendry was sensing what Podrick was internalizing, he was rubbing a hand between the knight’s shoulder blades and saying, “You should go over there,” and Podrick was giving him that sideways glance, the one that said, _are you kidding_ , but Gendry just waved it off. “Go! Ask her to dance.”

“I don’t even know if I can d-d-dan..”

“Dance?”

“—with her I mean.”

Gendry smirked. “You won’t know if you don’t even go over there.” When Podrick said nothing, just sipped at his ale, he was given a gentle push. “Go get her.”

And so he did.

~.~.~.~.~

Sansa remembered standing on Winterfell’s ramparts as Stark and Targaryen forces converged upon the castle, and how she cautiously stared as the dragons – Drogon and Rhaegal – flew overhead. She greet Jon just fine but Daenerys she regarded with a more colder, straight-faced demeanor; the two women exchanged courtesies, albeit a tense greeting. As she lamented over the message sent by Robett Glover, stating he would be remaining in Deepwood Mott with his troops, she expressed her disapproval of Jon bending the knee to the Targaryen queen; though she had unwavering faith in him, Sansa wondered if he bent the knee in order to save the North, or out of love for this woman.

She remembered Daenerys coming to her, asking for a moment of privacy, addressing political issues involved in their alliance, and of the reasoning behind Sansa’s initial distrust of the dragon queen. She was worried that Daenerys was simply manipulating Jon, while the dragon queen assured her of her love and lack of ulterior motives. A somewhat better understanding seemed to develop though when pressed about the North’s independence, Daenerys remained rather mute on the subject.

They hadn’t seen each other during the battle – Daenerys atop Drogon, before a sword had been forced into her hand, and Sansa in the crypts, telling herself she was hiding with the rest of those who couldn’t protect themselves, and feeling ashamed at doing so. She hadn’t told anyone, least of all Jon – and the details remained hazy, if she was honest – but there she was, crouched behind a tomb, with Tyrion beside her, and soon enough, she was standing amongst other survivors as they burned their dead; Daenerys stood with her, seeking comfort in her own loss just as Sansa did the same for herself.

They were standing side by side again, a drink in each of their hands, and this is where they were found when Podrick walked up upon them. He said nothing at first; though Sansa intimidating him, he was scared of the dragon queen. He felt rather ill. His stomach twisted. Had it been the ale turning? Maybe, it was the nerves doing it. His entire body felt warm and feverish. His heartbeat was strong, drumming on and on and just maybe they could hear its precipitous beating. Podrick worried it would crawl from his chest. Just plop out in front of them, mercilessly thrashing on the floor, and he’d be dead.

He must have looked ridiculous just standing there. They had noticed him—Daenerys raised a brow, Sansa acknowledging him before asking how he was finding the party—but Podrick hadn’t said much of anything to either of them. It was only a second or two more before he remembered his courtesies. The dragon queen excused herself rather quickly, leaving Sansa and Podrick alone with each other. It was a tense and awkward filled silence; neither knew what to say, and Podrick’s face was still flush with embarrassment.

Finally— _finally_ —he attempted a simple; “Hel—good evening—I mean, h-hi… your g-grace…” He could barely formulate the words. He stammered over every last one.

“Good evening, Ser Podrick,” she said. She saw the flush in his cheeks deepen; this prompted a smile; one she hadn’t even been aware of until it registered to her that the corners of her mouth had even turned. “Are you not enjoying yourself?”

Podrick looked as though he had been whipped. “Oh, of course I am! I mean, enough as I can be I guess.. enough as I _should_ … “ He scratched at the nape of his neck, and briefly glanced over his shoulder to see if Gendry had been watching—he was—before looking back at Sansa. “I came to ask… well, what I mean to say is that, well, I guess what I _trying_ to ask is, erm… dance! With me! Would you?” He didn’t look back to see if Gendry was still watching though Podrick was sure of it. Being this inarticulate was embarrassing.

Sansa’s past had given her more than enough reason to be cautious of men. Her harrowing experiences, all the suffering she had been through, the numerous tragedies—the crimes against herself and her family, causing her personality to turn more ruthless, however; still being able to retain some degree of compassion. She once naively believed in tales of epic romances, the ones where the princess would get her honorable knight in shining armor...and now she had _Podrick Payne_ standing in front of her asking to dance.

Sansa has always been initially wary of him because of his familiar relation to Ser Ilyn Payne, the King’s Justice, but she had soon come to realize that Podrick had been just as frightened of her as she had been of his cousin. There were moments she would talk to him, but he would always fluster, turning the most alarming shade of red.

She truly believed it was Jon who restored her faith in men. So as Podrick fumbled over himself as he was asking her for a dance, Sansa had smiled—a true, genuine smile; “I would be honored, Ser Knight.”

Podrick blinked; taken aback, he stammered out, “You, you would?” He inhaled and exhaled, slowly; his racing heart had regulated, less of this mind-numbing drumming on it had been doing.

She grabbed his mug of ale and placed it down on the table then, seizing his hand, whisked him onto the dance floor, joining others who gathered to partake in a courtly dance. Podrick sputtered, knowing he really didn’t know what he was doing but only knowing how he’d seen others dance and wanted to try it. Sansa was far more accustomed to court dances. She instructed him to stand in front of her, so he was in line with the few other men while she stood opposite him, joining the ladies standing opposite their partners. Once the band started up, Sansa was mouthing for Podrick to _bow_ as she curtsied. They offered the hands to each other then took a step in. They stood close, close enough for him to get a good look at her eyes, how blue they were. He smiled and she reciprocated.

They took a step back from each other and he casually spun her under his left arm. As they faced each other again, another curtsey and a bow took place. With their hands still locked, Podrick and Sansa once again took a step in towards each other. This time, instead of returning to their previous positions, they circled around one another, raising their arms only slightly, until their hands leveled with their eyes; not once had they ever lost eye contact with each other.

At this point, they had turned, only slightly, facing four others—Samwell Tarly to Podrick’s left, Bronn of the Blackwater to his right; standing next to Sansa, on each side of her, was Samwell’s wife Gilly and whichever young beauty Bronn had sweetened this time. Samwell and Gilly joined hands, danced around each other, and stopped on opposite sides from where they started. Bronn and his lady did the same. The circle of six extended their arms towards the center then walked clockwise for a count of six. They stopped, bowed and curtsied, and repeated the same as before, this time walking counter clockwise for the same count of six. When they stopped, as before, they bowed and curtsied.

Samwell and Gilly joined hands, danced around each other, and switched places again. Once again, Bronn and his raven-haired beauty had done the same. They each turned to their respective partners and bowed or curtsied then turned, faced towards the wall, took up each other’s hands, and walked a few steps forwards, stopping on a count of four only to bow once more.

The couples faced one another other again, stepped into each other’s space. Podrick and Sansa were within inches, close enough to where her neck tickled with goosebumps whenever he exhaled. It was this moment that got her a good look into his eyes; those soft, chestnut hues… so warm and comforting. Hers dazed in all their Tully blue brilliance. Sansa wasn’t even aware she had been staring for so long until they stepped away from each, took their bows and curtsies, and suddenly everyone was erupting in applause.

With a diminutive smile, Sansa thanked him for the dance then walked off to rejoin her table. Samwell and Gilly walked as well, but Bronn remained, shooting him a sideways grin.

Podrick caught the stare, shrugging his shoulders upwards, with a “What?” as he had no idea what that look from Bronn meant.

“The northern Queen, she’s an attractive one.” And there was sounded like a muttered agreement from Podrick, then Bronn added, “You want to fook her,” he bluntly stated, catching the much younger man off his guard, and Bronn chuckled at the shade of red turned in Podrick’s cheeks.

His shock turned to a scowl; “What? No!” Podrick shrugged off Bronn’s hand the minute it touched his shoulders so the elder clapped him on the back, forcing the younger off his step.

Bronn laughed. “Oh yes you do. I’ve seen the way you look at her…” He knew there was no denying that; he’d seen the passing looks here and there.

“No. I-It’s definitely not like that. I—“ He was feeling quite flushed again, and it was at this point that Bronn knew.

“Oh no! I see what’s going on.”

“What?”

“You’re in LOVE!”

Podrick’s face colored. “Definitely not!” Despite what he was saying, however, the tone in his voice and color in his face said otherwise. “I d-don’t know…where you got that i-idea from…” Again, Bronn clapped him on the back but at least this time, Podrick didn’t lose his balance.

“Trust me, lad, I know that look.” His head arched slightly left, and Podrick’s eyes followed; “You think I didn’t recognize that same fookin’ look in their stupid eyes? I knew he’d be fookin’ her and she’d be fookin’ him and look at that…I’m right again!” When he looked back and saw Podrick rolling his eyes, Bronn just laughed. “You and I both know it’s going to happen.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Right. Okay.” He started walking off, then added, “Just make sure to send an invite for the weddin’.” Bronn rejoined some of the others; laughing, drinking, putting aside such things as young love.

Talk with Bronn hadn’t just left him flustered but also affronted as well; what he felt for Sansa, whatever _this_ was, had been something he kept to himself for many years. He was just a young lad, a boy of six and ten, when he came to King’s Landing as Lord Tyrion’s squire. He was timid, withdrawn.. but he remembered a young red-headed beauty whose name was Stark. There were many times he wished he could have said something to her, been brave enough to do so, but it was always his nerves that got in his way.

The way Joffrey callously treated her made his blood boil, but he was too frightened to do anything. They’d have him whipped or worse. At least Tyrion was kinder, and he trusted his Lord, so he knew Sansa was in better hands. But following Joffrey’s murder at his own wedding feast, she was gone. Many assumed the worst; Cersei Lannister sure did.

It would be some time before he would see her again, and he felt the same as he did when he first saw her. He knew then what he still knew to this day: he wanted to protect her. Podrick wanted to be the knight who rescued the princess. He knew there was no denying Bronn’s words: he was in love with Sansa Stark.

Frustrated and angry with himself, Podrick snatched up the discarded mug of ale, gulped the rest of it down in one go, wiped off his mouth on the back of his sleeve, then walked off.

~.~.~.~.~

The jovial noise echoed down the hall as he walked, dying off in a slow and painful manner until he slipped around a corner and barely heard anything at all. He swaggered a bit from the ale, the sweet drink it was, but kept on moving forwards, ignoring his low-level of intoxication. He wasn’t used to it and perhaps he had too much of it. Sleeping it off would be the best course of action now. Let the others continue their merriment; Podrick was _done_. He wasn’t much for this sort of thing anyway. Not willingly. But the drink helped him endure it; he must remember to thank Gendry for that.

He stopped once he rounded another corner and gave himself some time to recoup. The corridors were just a wee bit dark; only the flicker of candlelight made it possible to see where anyone was walking. While the hallways and passage ways of the Red Keep weren’t a maze of narrow streets and alleyways as Flea Bottom was, it would still be difficult enough to get around if someone didn’t already knew where they were going.

The Red Keep was fashioned of pale red stone – therefore the name – and looked out over the mouth of Blackwater Rush. Much of the castle was connected underground. The curtain walls surrounding the castle were massive and stone parapets, some four feet high – at least, stood to protect the outer edges of the ramparts. The walls of the castle had great bronze gates with narrow postern doors nearby. Behind these walls were the small inner yard, covered bridges, barracks for the City Watch, dungeons, granaries, kennels for the dogs, and stables for the horses. Maegor’s Holdfast, the small council chambers, the Tower of the Hand, the lower bailey, a small sucken courtyard, and the black cells were all located beneath the circuitous steps leading to the castle while the Great Hall, the outer yard, the Godswood, the river walk, the small kitchen, the pig yard, the royal sept, and the Maidenvault were all located above the steps.

When Podrick first arrived at King’s Landing, he had a great deal of effort finding his way around. More than often, it would have been Tyrion shepherding him around. Or one of castle maids. At least once, it was Cersei who found him wandering around. Podrick had to then explain to Tyrion why he had been crying. Of course, the Red Keep had nothing on Winterfell’s massive size, whose walls were composed of dozens of courtyards and small open spaces and the corridors themselves felt more like a never ending maze. It took him ages to find his way around _that_ castle.

He pushed off from the walls he steadied himself against and proceeded towards the White Sword Tower, one of towers within the Red Keep that contained the chambers of all seven Royal Guard members. It was a slender, four-storied structure built into an angle of the castle; the tower oversaw Blackwater Bay. The first floor was the common room. White wool hangings decorated the stone walls. The room contained a large weirwood table carved in the shape of a shield. This room is where the White Book – a book that records all the deeds of every member who has ever served for the last three hundred years; Podrick secretly hoped to be reading his own entry one day, perhaps being the one who writes it – resides. The second and third floors held the sparse sleeping quarters for six of the members whereas the topmost floor contained the apartments of the Lady Commander.

Podrick stifled a yawn, putting a closed fist to his mouth, then continued. As he ambled down yet another corridor, this one decorated by candles and tapestries, he was not paying to where he stepped next and assumed the mass he stumbled into had been a wall. It wasn’t until his clouded eyes cleared that he saw what – or rather _who_ – he literally walked into: Sansa Stark. Podrick immediately started fidgeting with his own fingernails, avoiding eye contact, and trying to keep his own heart from jumping into his throat.

Sansa looked just as startled; she wasn’t expecting to be running into anyone. “Oh gods! I apologize,” she sputtered, feeling her cheeks burning red, “Are you alright?” _I obviously wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m such an idiot_ , she thought, but smartly hadn’t said out loud.

“Oh! Y-Yes…” He finally picked his head up, but his face was still very flushed in the cheeks when he was looking at her; every time he did, his face would always feel hot and uncomfortable. “N-No… your Grace… it was I who should have been paying attention. I could have hurt you! I’m so sorry!” His words were coming out faster than he meant them to.

“You couldn’t have hurt me, Ser knight,” she corrected; _you could never have hurt me nor would you have,_ her inner thoughts were telling her, _you are definitely not like all the others._

The coloring in Podrick’s face brightened. There would never be a moment where he’d ever think about hurting Sansa. She had struggled far too much in her life already. She deserved so much. _No, never_ , he was telling himself.

Podrick was looking at her just then, entranced by her, before she had called to him and shaking the webs from his head, he realized just how long he had let the silence go on. “My apologies,” he muttered, then scratching at the back of his neck, he added, “It must be the ale. I should go back to my quarters. Enjoy your evening.”

Gracing her with a courteous bow, Podrick turned and meandered off.

But then, “Wait, ser kn—I mean, Podrick…”

 _She said my name!_ He stopped, turned, and looked at her; “Did I say something to offend…?”

“No,” she answered, and it was obvious—at least to her—that she was suddenly quite nervous, and she couldn’t figure out the reason. Sansa stepped forwards and suddenly her heart was jumping. “I… I wasn’t planning to go back. I’ve had enough for one night I think. I will probably retire for the evening.” _I came looking for you but now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say and I feel quite foolish and, oh my gods, I am overthinking this way too much!_ Her head and her heart were both screaming at her; she blamed the ale.

“Where are your quarters?” They were right outside White Sword Tower; Podrick knew where the extra bedrooms were, normally kept for guests, and they were nowhere near the rooms for the Kingsguard. Either Sansa had gotten herself lost or—

She pointed a thumb over her right shoulder, “Maidenvault,” she answered. It was far enough away from the White Sword Tower that Sansa knew very well she had taken a wrong turn.

The long, slate-roofed Keep behind the royal sept was only called Maidenvault because King Baelor I Targaryen had once confined his sisters there to avoid them tempting him with carnet thoughts. Mace Tyrell and entourage were once housed there during the Battle of the Blackwater, and the late Queen Margaery remained in quarters there even after her marriage to Tommen.

“You’re far enough from there…”

Sansa nodded; “I must have gotten myself turned around. You see, it’s been a while since I’ve visited these halls and perhaps I don’t remember them as well as I thought I did,” _I could never forget these walls even if I had tried to. The real reason I went the wrong way was—_ “I’d be grateful if you would escort me. You probably know your way around more than I can remember right now.” She didn’t _think_ she drank that much but maybe she did, and she didn’t realize it.

Podrick swore the palpitations made it feel like his heart was beating too hard, or too fast, skipping a beat now and then, or fluttering. He noticed them in his chest, his throat, and his neck. Normally, they could be bothersome or frightening. He felt them before, normally brought on by enduring stress or anxiety; those were far too common for the young knight. 

Now Sansa Stark was asking _him_ to be her personal escort.

Swallowing hard, he nodded; “Al-Alright…” _I’d hate for you to be wandering these halls alone… at night… so I will gladly escort you, the woman I’ve been in love with since I was six and ten…_

He pushed aside his thoughts, gathered up his wits, and offered an arm; _a knight must always be brave in front of a lady._ Once Sansa took the offered appendage, Podrick gave her a warm smile. The awkward pair meandered off away from the White Sword Tower and remained silent for most of the trek back to Maidenvault. There was probably a lot of things they could have said to each other, many things they could have caught up on they missed out on, maybe from those sparse moments as teenagers. Podrick attempted to, even opened his mouth to form the words—but no sound ever came out, and he promptly shut his mouth.

He wasn’t the only one feeling voiceless; Sansa couldn’t say anything either. There was a lot she could say, many things she could have thanked him for, but she didn’t even know where to start. Sansa felt the tears prickling her eyes. She forced them back before Podrick could see. The less she would have to explain, the better of they both were.

Once they reached Maidenvault, she was starting to feel a little like herself though her chest was tight and the warmth radiating from Podrick’s body was keeping a smile on her face though neither of them had looked at the other; if only they could have been reading the thoughts of the other person. It felt more like a reprieve once they reached her quarters, stopping right outside her door. Sansa turned, _finally_ facing him, and the flush in his cheeks had not diminished.

Slowly, Sansa unhooked her arm from Podrick’s; “Thank you for the escort…” She reached for the door but at the last second, hesitated, as if she was missing something or was thinking of something… else.

“You are most welcome,” he said. There was a momentary pause—his heart was fluttering again; his nerves were trying to get the better of him—before he added; “Sleep well, Your Grace.” He left it at that. Turning from her so she wouldn’t see that look in his eyes, Podrick started walking off. It was Sansa’s voice calling to her that had him stopping and looking back.

“Sansa," she uttered, "call me by my name, Pod."

Podrick nodded. “Of course. As you wish---” there was that meager pause in which he could probably hear the blood pounding in his ears.

She disappeared into her quarters, shutting the door behind her.

“---Sansa.”


	2. Chivalry Isn't Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid”.-Fyodor Dostoyevsky_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation from last chapter. I knew there was more of a story to tell <3 Merry Christmas, everyone!

_She wouldn’t have thought to consider the Lady of Winterfell a friend, but she supposed it was possible; the pair had known each other long enough, been through enough—long enough for a lifetime._

_Brienne watched as Sansa’s gaze had wandered once more. Sansa had been looking into the interior courtyard and watching as everyone passed by – on occasion, there would even be those who met her gaze and offered her a polite nod. It was not the men who truly caught her attention, however; but a squire, one with hair as black as coal and eyes as brown as a stag’s pelt. He mustn’t have noticed._

_But Brienne—she had noticed. She shared her time flitting a look between her sworn lady and her squire, almost daring to imagine what one or the other might have been thinking. She noted that Sansa was not been smiling, but a rather impassable expression she could only began to contemplate the meaning of. Looking back at her squire, she realized they had been spotted. He was looking at them. Most importantly, he was looking at her. The gaze between squire and lady lasted about as long as a heartbeat; Podrick wandered off and Sansa had broken away her gaze, blinking as though fresh snow had collected on her lashes._

_She did not look back at Brienne but kept herself looking at the snow on the courtyard, even long after Podrick had left her sight. Her curiosity had peaked; though, she never would have bothered to care before. There… there was something—maybe. Something there that gnawed at her belly. Perhaps it was memories she hadn’t completely forgotten._

_Brienne seemed curious to the way Sansa was staring. Her squire – Lord Tyrion’s former squire – had come into her service as a means to get him out of King’s Landing. It certainly hadn’t been requested and she attempted to release him from his vows not ten minutes after leaving the capital._

_Sansa opened her mouth, but closed it quickly, instead looking back to nothing, and maybe trying to find something else to focus on._

_Brienne arched a brow. She had already suspected this was going somewhere. “Podrick is a good man, Lady Sansa” Brienne assured the younger woman; it seemed, to her at least, that this Lady of Winterfell had deep reservations about Podrick Payne that Brienne didn’t understand. “He’s always taken his duties to me very seriously.”_

_Sansa nodded; “I know that… but—” She pulled her posture tighter, so she seemed more stiff, more standoffish. She would catch a look, once or twice, but he’d always turn from her. “--he is cousin to Ser Ilyn Payne,” Sansa said; she knew exactly where this inquiry was heading. The look in Brienne’s eyes bespoke confusion, and curiosity. “The King’s justice – he executed my father for treason on Joffrey’s orders.” She had been apprehensive of the man in the beginning, but she no longer had those doubts of Podrick’s loyalty and judging him from atrocities not by his own hand was wrong of her; she knew that now._

_This fact was lost on Brienne, who would never had assumed there was a reason for anyone—much less Sansa—to be terrified of someone like Podrick, who was always ever cheerful and gentle. Brienne was more than interested at this point. But before she could inquire further, Sansa continued on that same thought train._

_Brienne nodded; she contemplated Sansa’s confession. She too had been guilty of misplaced scrutiny. She initially tried rejecting the offer of a squire – when Ser Jaime reasoned the boy would be safer with her -- arguing that he would only slow her down, and later tried to rid herself of him by releasing him from his vow; whether obstinacy or his pride talking, he refused to leave. She came to admire the young man._

_She had taken a liking to her squire and felt a semblance of protectiveness over him. She attempted not to show it, but Brienne had visibly stiffened at Sansa’s words. “Do you not trust him?” King’s Landing was a ways away and it felt like such a lifetime ago. They were different people now; older, wiser, perhaps._

_If it had been anyone else, Sansa might have rebuked them for speaking to her in such a tone, but Brienne wasn’t just anyone else, and Sansa knew the woman meant well; she was protective of Podrick, and it showed whenever they spoke of the squire. “Though I’ve tried to be amiable,” she started, and sighed, “I haven’t always been the kindest towards him. He deserved better.” She had grown, just as Podrick did, but her experiences caused her to become reserved and distrustful. “I judged him poorly and I wish I could take it back.”_

_Brienne had been biting her lip; she, too, had judged Jaime poorly on many levels but none of which she could take back—only move forward._

_“Might I offer a suggestion, my Lady?”_

_“I trust you implicitly, Lady Brienne,” Once again, Sansa nearly smiled, “I don’t say it enough to assure you of that—” She was thinking of something else as well, “—and, I dare say that I’ve come to consider you a friend as well. I have so few of those these days: True friends.”_

_“None of us know what will come of this war; who will survive, what will be left of them… but there are those still here, now, and many of us deserve a chance…”_

_There was something still holding her back. Fear, perhaps. Fear of what? Fear of the unknown? Still, there had something in him that she hadn’t seen in the others. An innocent lad, with a kind and loving heart. Someone who has always ever treated her with decency and respect. And she barely ever spoke two words to him._

**_Gods give me strength_ ** _; a sweet entreaty that stopped before it reached her lips; she hardly prayed for herself anymore. If she hadn’t walked off, hadn’t decided to follow after the squire, Sansa never would. Her nerves would have failed her, then. She respired gradually, slowly breathing out of her mouth. Her agitation increased. She wanted to turn back. Go back to where it was safe. Hide away from him. But he would still be there the next day, and the day after that, and they all might be dead come the long night._

___ ___________

There were some memories Sansa did not like to dwell on. She didn’t like to remember the terrible periods in her past; those moments with Joffrey, or Ramsey, or getting caught within the web of lies and deceit that Petyr Baelish would spin. So many memories she’d rather forget. She pushed them away, moving on from them as best she could. But then, there were the memories she didn’t want to be forgetting; her loving and doting father, the last moments with her mother, growing up with her family… reuniting with Jon, Arya, and Bran. Sansa thought she would be content by that point.

There were more memories to be had; some good, some bad. But if Brienne hadn’t encouraged Sansa to speak to the young squire, then the Lady of Winterfell might never had added yet another memory.

___ ___________

_The tightness in her chest unraveled, slowly, until the collective mutters faded off, replaced by something more melodious: **High in the halls of the king who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts** …the words had been. Sansa didn’t know the emotions she meant to be feeling, only that an uneasiness had settled in her heart the more she heard… **The ones she had lost and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most** …She bit down a little at her bottom lip; she must know who was singing such a song. The song was somber, but the voice was sweet-sounding; as if she heard that same singing before, when she was much younger… and, perhaps, another time…_

_The rhythmic crooning was coming from the armory. Despite being able to close eyes and mentally take herself through every nook and cranny of Winterfell, Sansa was unfamiliar with the armory. She never came here; had no reason for it. Closer, she walked, until she was just outside. Sansa stopped, taking it in all at once, and slowly realizing that she wasn’t as anxious as before. The panic in her chest had subsided almost completely; a sense of tranquility washing over her in waves._

_And then, there it was—a face to put to a song: Podrick Payne. Sansa observed, quietly. He reminded her of Arya during Septa Mordane’s lessons; down-cast eyes, lost in thought, oblivious to all else around him. She always had a tenderness for the squire with the gentlest of hearts, even if she never allowed herself to open up to him._

_She remembered singing; how happy it made her when she did. But she didn’t sing, not anymore. There should be at least someone in this castle who still enjoyed the sweet sounds of their own voice._

____________

When the battle between the army of the dead and the people of the North finally took place, it was Sansa and her sister Arya who quietly observed from the castle walls. As the charge of Dothraki screamers was repelled and wights advanced on the barricades, Arya turned to her sister and ordered her to the crypts. Not without Arya attempting to hand her a dragonglass dagger: _Still ‘em with the point end_ , she said. Sansa didn’t need it; she had another. It had already been gifted to her by someone else. Someone taller. Someone who admired her from afar for many years and wanted nothing but the best for her.

As the survivors gathered outside of Winterfell’s gates amongst the dozens of funeral pyres, Sansa mourned for the loss of Theon Greyjoy; her friend, _brother_. The flames had been hard to watch. Her eyes subverted when the smoke became too much. Standing close to Jaime and Brienne was a very bruised and battered Podrick Payne. Her heart had thumped then, warmed by the knowledge of his survival. He had caught her looking and offered a comforting smile.

___ ___________

_The flush in Podrick’s cheeks deepened, and Sansa nearly offered him a smile. She felt it, just behind the muscles in her face, but she forbade herself from doing so at the last second._

_Sansa found herself staring at him. And he at her._

_She saw, with absolute certainty, that Podrick had the gentlest of eyes. Her brother used to have soft and gentle eyes, but years at the Wall, and beyond, had changed him. His eyes were not soft anymore, nor were they gentle; not like Podrick’s eyes._

_She realized that, maybe, there was something there; something that made her feel warm. Whatever it was, it burned deep in her chest. Sansa found a spot on the floor and stared at it; her face had turned from him before he could see that her cheeks had warmed._

_She gaped at it, putting her mind elsewhere; not here, she thought, not with the man who frightened me for so long. She knew it couldn’t have been his doing. Podrick was not responsible for the atrocities committed by the King’s Justice. As a girl, Sansa had convinced herself otherwise— **It was the name: Payne –**_ **his _name – that I dreaded_** _, she admitted; an entirely unfair assessment, but a truth she lived with._

____________

The dance was over far too soon. She would have liked it to continue. But she returned to her table where others were waiting; neither said a word. She preferred it. Her heart was still in flutter. She didn’t want the interrogation about the knight she was clandestinely so fond of. Part of her _longed_ to kiss him. But the other half queried the judgment knowing the perils she had gone through. She needed a distraction. Something to take her mind off the thoughts running wild through it.

Sansa snatched up a pitcher, poured herself some ale, and gulped it down in one go. Her thoughts were betraying her again; the ale hadn’t been enough to dull them out… Emotions were something she didn’t express. Not openly. She imagined a quiet evening at Winterfell: she was dressed in a white satin gown—adorned with red blooming flowers—and _he_ wore the finest of robes, everyone gathered from castles scattered across all of Westeros, and they were joined as husband and wife in the eyes of the Gods—the old and the new.

An image that would never come to pass; she was the Queen of the North and he was knight to the Royal Guard of their graces, Jon and Daenerys—it was a pairing that would not… _could not_ … happen. What Sansa wanted was nothing more than a dream of a little girl who still believed in chivalrous knights and beautiful princesses to be rescued by those knights. 

She must have permitted her mind to wander _too_ much. _Someone_ had been looking. That someone hadn’t been anyone she traveled with but an old friend who remained loyal to her for years; when Sansa looked, it was the Lady Commander—Ser Brienne Lannister—staring down, expression softened, curious…

Sansa nodded, dismissively; “Oh, Ser Brienne,” she started, completely ignoring the fact she had been upset; “my congratulations on your marriage. It has been a long time coming.” She forced a smile.

“I appreciate your gratitude, your Grace…” Brienne’s voice trailed a bit.

The pause was there; Sansa knew what it was the Lady Commander wanted to know; “Ask your questions, Ser Brienne…”

“I did not want to interfere into your personal life, but I sense uneasiness in you.”

Sansa sighed; it wasn’t the first time she tried secreting anything from Brienne. Truthfully, she never could. The Lady Commander was just too familiar with her feelings. “Don’t be fret about me. Not today. This is a festive affair for you and the Lord Hand…” As much as she wanted to make it seem like she cared more about Ser Brienne’s happiness than her own, there was still sadness clinging to her voice.

“I _do_ worry, your grace. Seeing you upset worries me.” Brienne looked off yonder to where Podrick had meandered off to; there was a moment, then, of a frown creasing her mouth. She thought--well, maybe not.

Sansa sighed, remembered her father's words; _When you’re older, I’ll find you a match with someone who’s worthy of you. Someone brave and gentle and strong…_

~.~.~.~.~

The door had shut. Now it was just her… her and her own thoughts. She pressed herself against the wood; her mind running adrift, her heart a-flutter inside her chest. Just on the other side of that door was a man she knew she was in love with but too afraid to say anything for fear of having her heart broken again. Sansa _knew_ Podrick would _never_ do that to her, but something buried in her subconscious was trying to convince her otherwise. She stood there wondering if he was still on the other side of that door.

Was he thinking of her as she was thinking of him? Sansa sighed; if he was still standing there, waiting for _something_ —maybe waiting for _her_.

Sansa was thinking, maybe over-thinking _too_ much…

___ ___________

_One minute she had been risking life and limb to escape Winterfell – ironic that she would ever need to escape from her own home; Ramsey had seen to that – and the next, she was wading chest deep through an icy river. She thought of Theon then, and what he’d done for her; he owed her a great deal after what he had done; she supposed saving her from Ramsey was his way of beginning his redemption. In her eyes, anyway. But then they huddled behind a downed tree, and he tried so very hard to rub warmth back into her freezing body, and suddenly merely escaping her ancestral home wasn’t enough; the hounds were on them._

_Sansa balked at the thought. Only later on wound the irony of hounds come back into play. She thought she was done for. She thought Theon might betray her. Give away their position. He tried to get them away. Off her scent. But hounds were such resourceful creatures. They picked it up immediately and rushed past Theon. They found her alright and Sansa recalled the way her heart was beating in her throat just assuming these hounds would rip flesh from bone right there. She knew death would be painful, but she prepared herself for it. Getting ripped limb from limb by blood-thirsting hounds was probably a reprieve anyway; any death would have been ideal if it meant she didn’t have to be raped every night._

_But death did not come for Sansa that day. Her savior, as it turned out, was the same woman she had turned down so long ago, before Lifflefinger sold her off to Ramsey Bolton. And she kept thinking that maybe she should have accepted the woman’s offer of service that day in the tavern; it would have saved her from the torment she was forced to endure. There was more. A second rescuer had come, riding in on a metaphorical white horse, sword in hand; the very sword held in Sansa’s hands now – the knight had come to save the princess, she thought; **maybe those stories do still exist…**_

___ ___________

Remembering that day, the day she _knew_ with inevitability, that she was falling for him, Sansa made a call; exhaling, she prayed he would still be standing there when she opened the door…

…and he was.

They stared at each other awkwardly for a while. Of course, neither knew exactly what to say. Surely a woman who called herself Queen of the North could muster up a few words for the knight. And even if she could think of something, Podrick hadn’t spoken either. Time ticked by. Too much, it seemed like.

And then…

“I suppose I… I should be going now… but—” Podrick stammered out only a few words; scratching at the back of his neck while trying to figure out how he was meant to continue.

He didn’t have to. “…I know,” Sansa uttered, seemingly knowing where he was going with this. Again, there was a moment, in which only their shared breathing could be heard, before; “Would you care to come in?” Her heart was beginning to drum a repetitive beat.

Podrick’s breathing became uneven, but he nodded and stepped inside.

___ ___________

_Eventually, she lifted her eyes from the spot on the floor, and then; “You have been in service of Lady Brienne for some time now have you not?” She turned to face him._

_“Y-yes, milady.”_

_“And, how long do you suppose that has been?” Get to know him, Brienne’s voice resonated in her mind._

_Podrick shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose – I mean, I don’t remember. A couple of years, I guess. They all just…blur together…” He responded with a quaking voice. He inhaled and exhaled, slowly; his racing heart had regulated, less of this mind-numbing drumming on it had been doing._

_There was the issue of his service weapon still on the floor. Sansa noticed it; Podrick appeared heedless of it. She retrieved it, unaware of gaping eyes watching her. She stood straight, grasping the sword by the pommel. It was nothing significant, but she marveled at it just the same._

_And then she asked; “Is this the sword?” Sansa still clutched it like a lifeline. She remembered it well, remembered how he used it to slay Bolton men; it was not something she’d forget anytime soon._

_Podrick, he looked confused. “Milady…?”_

_“You killed men with this sword.” Finally, finally, she looked up again; their eyes met. “Bolton men.” Many things Sansa had forced herself to forget but this – Podrick, and Brienne, coming to her rescue – was not something she could ever allow herself to forget. “I remember. How could I forget? If you and Lady Brienne hadn’t – if you hadn’t come, I—” Sansa’s voiced faded off; knowing what she wanted to say, but not able to say it._

_“I was doing my duty, milady.”_

_Her voice broke a little; “You did so much more than that,” she told him._

_Sansa felt the tears prickling her eyes. She forced them back before Podrick could see. The less she would have to explain, the better of they both were._

_Her focus was the sword she held; what it meant to her was far more important than crying over a past she couldn’t change. She thumbed the pommel, as if memorizing the details of something that seemed fairly generic to anyone else._

_And then; “Keep it safe,” she remarked, “Always.”_

_When she handed his sword back to him, Sansa paid unusually close attention as he reached for it. Their hands, they almost – almost – brushed one another, but Podrick had quickly recoiled with a fresh crimson on his cheeks at the almost-maybe-touching._

_She was undoubtedly seeing now that her uncertainties were only telling her not to trust Podrick because of his gender; and that was unwise of her. He wasn’t like everyone else. He always treated her better than most and she felt shame at not giving him the chance he had proven time and time again that he deserved._

_This wasn’t as painful as I imagined, she thought and for once, Sansa was actually feeling less frightened than she had been for the longest time._

_She knew there was more she wanted to say – so much more – and she parted her lips, the words just there on the tip of her tongue—_


	3. Just Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“To be loved and to love, takes courage. To be fully seen is incredibly rare and breathtaking. We lower our masks and see a celestial inner being. It is our full self -- the supernova as well as the black holes. Our fears and doubts. Our anger and joy...This is love.”_  
>  ― Carolyn Riker, Blue Clouds: A Collection of Soul’s Creative Intelligence

Sansa knew what it meant when she closed that door: she was dismissing the years of manipulation and suffering, of violence and cruelty, of a time when she allowed her personality to darken until she could be as ruthless as Cersei Lannister herself—now, there was only _Sansa Stark_ , the Lady of Winterfell… stripped bare in the truly metaphorical sense. It was here she was beginning to feel at peace with herself again.

Closing the door suggested she was allowing herself to _feel_ again. She knew she was leaving herself open, raw and vulnerable, like the day she was born to this world, casting off the shell of the woman she adapted for so long because so many that had broken her before.

Joffrey had been an egotistical, aggressive, malicious, merciless and autocratic ruler who took enormous pleasure in the agony of others. He had gone as far as joyously speculating serving Sansa her brother’s head at their own wedding feast. He willingly took advantage of the misplaced trust she had in him because of her innocence, her belief that he had been a kind and gentle prince. He once had her brought before the whole court where he had threatened to kill her. Instead, it was on his orders that Sir Meryn Trant stripped her down and beat her. When he cast her aside in favor of marriage to Margaery Tyrell, she feigned her sorrow when in reality, Sansa could hardly conceal her excitement.

Ramsey Bolton was the definition of a genuine sociopath, the personification of pure evil with no repentance for his actions and no redeemable features. He was dishonorable, manipulative, ruthless, sadistic—more so than Joffrey Baratheon, who took a much more passive role while Ramsey enjoyed inflicting as much pain and degradation as possible. He had raped Sansa on their wedding night, forcing Theon—then known as Reek—to watch; the smallest hint of anger brushing across Theon’s face. Over the next few days, the same would continue. She once tried to escape him, but Ramsey had been informed of her plans and as punishment, flayed her elderly maid alive and forced her to look upon the corpse. It reminded Sansa of the time Joffrey had Ned killed and she was made to look upon her father’s decapitated head. She took pleasure when he finally met his comeuppance; she walked off with the slightest smile, his screams echoing as the hounds ripped his flesh.

The true manipulator in all of this was Petyr Baelish. First with integrating himself into Jon Arryn’s services as a customs officer, and then as Master of Coin. He made good use of the brothels he owned; agents would spy on and manipulate clientele for his pleasure. He would always use his past friendship with Catelyn Stark against her, continuing to make her believe he was a trustworthy friend at court. It was because of him that everything happened. It was just as he said—chaos; _Chaos isn’t a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but refuse. They cling to the realm, or the gods, or love... illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is._

Petyr Baelish was the one to convince Lysa Arryn to poison her husband, to write a letter to her sister in the north, claiming it was the Lannisters who killed Jon. He was the puppet, the original orchestrating the entire War of the Five Kings. He tried and failed to manipulate Bran, so he set his sights on destroying the relationship between the Stark sisters—beginning with Arya. This proved to be a turning point, a downfall for Lord Baelish. Once Sansa learned of his ultimate guilt in the War that started everything, she knew enough. Though Arya was later brought to trial to face charges of murder and treason, it was Petyr Baelish who was on trial instead. This move caught the man off-guard. He begged, he pleaded, but in the end, Arya took a Valyrian steel dagger to his throat and Sansa watched as his blood pooled onto the floor.

Even before justice had finally caught up to him, Sansa knew the moment Baelish dragged Brienne’s name into the mix, it spelt trouble for the sworn sword. This was not something she could allow. The morning Maester Wolkan approached Sansa, informing her of a letter received from Cersei in King’s Landing, her gut had twisted; Cersei was calling her to a gathering and Sansa thought it to be some kind of trap. Feeling in her bones that Baelish meant to attempt to use Brienne in some way – worse yet, _Podrick_ – she thought that by sending Brienne to King’s Landing in her stead, Sansa was protecting them _both_.

It wasn't her desire to ride for King's Landing. And for what, anyway—a gathering with Cersei Lannister? That's what was in the letter brought by raven said. But the letter called for Sansa to attend, not Brienne. The Lady of Tarth made that clear; _They invited you. They want you there_ , she argued. But to counter, the Lady of Winterfell claimed she would not step foot in King's Landing, not while Cersei Lannister was still wearing the crown. She'd stayed in the north where she belonged; there was much work to still be done.

Brienne was obstinate; one of her many faults, so she's been told- _It's not safe,_ she persisted. The message was unclear to which the Lady of Tarth was referring to; not safe for Sansa to travel to King's Landing or not safe for her to remain here in Winterfell without the protection of her sworn sword? Brienne didn't exactly trust either option; Cersei Lannister detested Sansa or then there was Littlefinger— _gods_ , even the name put a bad taste in Brienne's mouth.

No, probably not but then, Sansa knew there was no reason for Brienne to be fearful of anything—not when she knew of someone present at this gathering, someone she knew was quite dear in heart and spirit to her sworn sword. _Well, Ser Jaime will be there,_ and when she turned, she almost smiled just then; there are certain things that didn't go unnoticed, like the way the corners of Brienne's lips twitched when Sansa brought up Jaime's name, or the flicker of light that danced in her sapphire blue eyes- _You always said he treated you honorably._ _That he did; she wasn’t concerned about Jaime._

Brienne suggested leaving Podrick behind, a prospect Sansa did not take kindly to. She had rounded on her sworn sword, speaking to her with a raised voice even she didn’t think she was capable of. Either of out fear for his safety or annoyance, she made herself quite clear; _I do not need to be watched over or minded or cared for_ , she had snapped, and the anger was out before she could think rationally, _I’m not a child._ _I am the Lady of Winterfell and I am home_. It was too late to recoil. Too late to apologize. If saving Brienne and Podrick meant being harsh with a woman who had protected her far better than most, than Sansa would manage.

Seeing Podrick alive and well brought warm feelings to her heart. Upon his return to Winterfell, she considered abandoned all forms of proper etiquette so she could embrace him and bask in the warmth of his body. Seeing him alive and breathing was all she wanted; sending him away had been worth it.

Now he was in her quarters. To be technical, they weren’t _hers_ to begin with. But for now, they were. This was not the protocol. Nothing about this was proper. And she avoided eye contact the moment she invited him inside. Sansa knew what she was doing, though she didn’t know what might happen. Podrick wasn’t like Joffrey or even Ramsey; he wouldn’t take advantage of her when there was none to give. Whatever silence passed between them was only softened by their evened breathing tones. Water. She needed water. Sansa thanked the Old Gods for the decanter she found waiting for her on a small table by the opened window. She poured herself a glass and offered the same to Podrick. The pair then stood in silence once again. She never thought she was ever be as thankful for the nightly breeze as she was then; the cool her skin, warmed with intense heat whenever she caught herself looking at _him_ for more than a second.

It was Podrick who spoke first, unsettled by the reticence; “Three years… “ _…three years, seven months, and fourteen days_ … that long since either of them had seen the other. He stared at her for as long as it took for him to breathe next, and then he was looking at the rim of his water goblet; the breeze at his back tickled the tiny prickles of hair on the back of his neck.

“Yes, three years…” She was nodding, _three years **too** long_; “…and… it looks like we have both done well for ourselves in that time, _Ser_ Podrick, ” he looked up as she spoke about him, putting emphasis on his knightly title.

A blush slowly crept along his face.

Following Ser Brienne’s appointment as Lady Commander, she had called for her loyal squire; Podrick obeyed, willingly, because whenever she called—he answered, without question.

_You want to be a knight, Pod?_

He had nodded once, when she asked him, although she couldn’t have knight him… not then… so they trained with the sword and he learned quickly.

Brienne wanted him as a knight in the Royal Guard. Podrick was flattered… but he was not yet a knight. _Kneel_ , she had said. With his heart pumping, he bent a knee… and she raised her sword—Oathkeeper, as she called it. Podrick had a hard time keeping her gaze. So he focused elsewhere.

… _In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave…_ Brienne’s sword crossed his shoulders… _In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just…_ Podrick tried to focus his breathing, his blood singing within the veins running his arms and neck… _In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent…_ as the sword crossed to his other shoulder, his heartbeat thrummed in his ears; he could feel it, pounding away in his chest…

And finally….

_Arise, Ser Podrick… a knight of the Seven Kingdoms…_

He knelt as a squire but stood as a knight, just as he wanted. But his jubilation of all he had accomplished still felt empty in some way. For when he accepted his position and knighthood, it was Sansa’s face that came to mind.

And it was Sansa who said to him—“You never wrote me…”

For three long years, he went without word, and he had not sent word to her. Nothing. He wanted to. Every time he sat with paper and quill to write; nothing came of it. There was so much he wanted to say to her yet could never formulate words adequate enough—and so he didn’t.

Podrick gulped down the rest of his water.

“Yes, I know."

“Why didn’t you?”

In three years, Sansa had heard from Brienne, from Jon… even Daenerys and Samwell—but not one word from Podrick; she had considered the possibility that he had forgotten her completely.

Shaking his head, he said, “…I—I guess… I just didn’t know what to say… “ _There is so much I wanted to say to you, so much I still want to say… but it doesn’t matter. You are a Queen and I—_ "Knowing how we parted ways, I... well, picking up that quill just became harder and harder each time...”

Sansa sighed; “I was… lonely…” _No, wait, this isn’t right; this is improper…_

“How could the Queen of the North ever be lonely?” Podrick blinked, finding it hard to fathom a woman such as Sansa Stark being lonely. Perhaps… maybe, there was much more than he knew. She had been looking at him just then, almost a dull numbness to her eyes. “I mean… well… I don’t know _how_ you felt. It was wrong of me to assume. Forgive me….”

“You are right to assume… “ Sansa sighed; she was not feeling quite herself. But if she had been at all worried about propriety, she wouldn’t have invited him inside. “… no one would have thought I could be lonely, the Queen of the North, but… I have been the loneliest I ever thought I could be. Jon… he is King of the Six Kingdoms… Bran, is here… and I haven’t heard from Arya for many moons—my family, people I love… “

Podrick crossed over to where she stood long before his subconscious had caught up to him. It hadn’t dawned on him how close they were standing—within inches of each other—but he was consciously aware how his breathing rate had changed.

“… I didn’t know. Forgive me.”

“You have done nothing wrong worth forgiving…”

Podrick had sighed again, his breathing hitching in his chest even before he exhaled. “I didn’t write to you because… because I was afraid,” he admitted; _there it is_ , he thought, _the truth_. He waited, he watched… he watched as Sansa’s eyes drifted until they were completely focused on him, and all he could do was gaze deeply, milking the calming blue waters.

“There is no need to be.”

“…if only I could be honest…” Here was a boy… standing in front of a girl… and there was so much he wanted to say to her, so many untold secrets kept inside his heart.

A hand reached out, taking his, “… then _be_ honest…”

“I… Sansa—”

The code of a knight states that they must defend the weak and the innocent, protect women and children, fight fairly and honorably, obey their lieges… some fighting for romantic reasons while others were more interested in money… and Podrick had always dreamt of being the knight who rescued princesses and fair maidens, with little to zero thought of reward. He wanted to fight for honor.

Standing in front of Sansa Stark, he truly realized one thing; he wanted to fight for _her_.

 _Be honest_.

Okay.

Podrick never was the greatest wordsmith. He was no poetic. No songwriter. But what he lacked in words, he made up for in actions. Sansa begged of him to be honest? Alright.

He took a breath…prayed the Seven for strength…

…and kissed her.


	4. Behind These Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey. At other times, it is allowing another to take yours.”_  
>  ― Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains explicit material. I have adjusted the rating accordingly.

There had been a time, quite long ago it seemed, when Sansa put forth more attention into emulating her mother’s example of a properly lady from the southern courts, becoming committed to the customary ideals of womanly qualities. This was a sharp contrast to the far less idealistic and tomboyish nature of her sister, Arya, often causing friction between the siblings, culminating in something of a sibling rivalry. Unlike her sister, Sansa was much more passive, always waiting for things to happen rather than taking vigorous measures. Where Arya preferred the more tomboyish lifestyle, Sansa was about fair maidens, heroic knights, and mythical figures..

..mythical figures like Jonquil – a heroine of legend known for falling in love with a knight named Florian. As the story goes, Florian first spied Jonquil as she bathed with her sisters in a pool located in the town of Maidenpool. There were songs written for them: _Six Maids in a Pool_ could be one, which Sansa knew by heart; she offered to sing it for Sandor Clegane once, but he declined. Jon Snow and Robb Stark would often pretend to be Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Florian the Fool, respectively as children, and young Sansa would be the princess to rescue.

She was also very much into other historical figures…such as Duncan Targaryen, also known as the Prince of Dragonflies, was another fascination of Sansa’s. He was the eldest son and heir of King Aegon V Targaryen and named for Ser Duncan the Tall. He once fell in love with a woman simply known as Jenny of Oldstones and it was said that he loved her so much, her surrendered his crown and married her against his father’s wishes. This had created friction since he had been betrothed to Lyonel Baratheon’s daughter. He had been angered by the event, briefly renouncing his allegiance to the iron Throne. The rebellion was brief. In the end, he had been defeated in battle by Ser Duncan the Tall.

There were many songs written about Jenny, most famously _Jenny’s song,_ which was always a request of the ghost of High Heart as payment in exchange for telling the brotherhood without banners of her prophetic dream. It is said that Jenny had been a queer and lovely girl who always wore flowers in her hair, though she was considered half-mad peasant with some calling her a witch. According to the song, she would dance with ghosts in the halls of kings.

Sansa didn’t sing. Not anymore. That childlike innocence _could_ be buried, somewhere deep deep down, or simply forgotten. There had been naught tales of fair maidens or heroic knights or courtly princes to bring her solace and she had since dismissed the idea of there every being one.

But then there was Podrick; sweet, sweet Podrick, who would never ever hurt anyone. A man who seemed to bear no one ill-will or malice and who was only ever kind and gentle to those around him. Dear sweet Podrick…he deserved someone who would never take advantage of his good nature. In many ways, he was far too innocent for this world. Sansa envied him.

 _Kissing_ him had sent her heart ablaze. A sudden, unexpected feeling. Leaving her warm and feverish. Her lips were shaking, sending tremors through her entire nervous system. A tingle cascaded down her spine, evoking a sensation within her she had no idea she was capable of feeling. Sansa was feeling quite dizzy and the only thing she could do to keep herself steady was cling onto him. He had drawn her toward him, inclining his head and breathing her in. Sansa felt the hollow urgency of vulnerability, the sinking feeling that left her stripped bear of all and every barrier ever constructed to protect her heart.

Podrick intensified the kiss, pushing against her, bending her head back, then swiftly graduated to throwing his arms around her shoulders. But a kiss wasn’t just about the physical aspect; it was about the relationship and what was going through their minds at the time. It was about the pure emotion exploding inside. To Podrick, and to Sansa, it was an unrestricted invitation to look into the others’ souls. Such a softness, such a sweetness. It was as though the only two souls in the world were him and her and nothing else mattered.

When Podrick pulled gradually from her, she was groaning, desperate to have his lips on her again. His mouth stretched to a smile. He leaned forwards, pressing their noses together. He inhaled her scent; she smelt like the beach, of a fragrant lavender plucked from the garden. “You should not have stopped …” She pleaded, breathless, hungerly needing to be kissed like that again.

His eyelids closed; his forehead pressed to hers; “We—I…I should be getting back… “ His mouth was saying one thing, but his brain was screaming another. His fingers delicately danced over the rim of her dress, casually brushed over any exposed flesh, raising goosebumps that prickled her skin.

But she had other ideas. “Stay. Stay here…” _Stay with me. I **need** you… _

For the first time in a very, very long while, Sansa knew _exactly_ what she wanted. What she _needed_. Just a taste had left her hungry for more. She had never felt so alive, so vigorously full of life…

_I—I want to… Gods, I would want for nothing else…_

She inhaled, breathing deep; it shuddered beneath her breasts. In her next breath, words had tumbled from her mouth before she had control over them; “Lay with me…“ Her heart was beating hard, and harder, and she knew there was no logic where her emotions were concerned—not anymore.

Sansa moved her hands behind her, arched her fingers until they brushed over where his lay. They pressed against his, ever so slightly flexing across them. She was teasing him. He knew it. She had him tugging at the laces at her gown—first the surcote, and then the kirtle underneath, until there was nothing left by the chemise beneath. Podrick took a breath, allowing his eyes to soak in the woman standing before him. She found his eyes. Her chest moved rapidly—in and out—and her heart was thrashing wildly. Slowly, as Sansa was finding her breathing, she reached behind her to remove the pins from her hair.

After shaking out her hair, Sansa reached for the buckles holding Podrick’s armor in place. Time in which it took to remove these buckles, and the straps, and all else involved had no meaning. She didn’t think about it. What she only thought about was getting him out of them. Once he was, once they _both_ stood in front of the other wearing little more than shifts meant to wore beneath their clothing, Sansa paused. She was very much aware that it was Podrick she stood in front of and the other thing separate their bodies were thin, barely concealing fabrics of clothes. But she took him in. All of him.

He closed a gap between them until scarcely a light could be seen through the space between their bodies. Reaching, Podrick removed the last of the laces holding up her chemise. It pooled at her feet. This time when he was kissing her again, she completely and wholly gave into his _hunger_ —his desire… for she felt it too. This time, they attacked each other with a furiousity neither had ever been introduced to before. With Joffrey, it was only ever torture and torment. And Tyrion would not lay with her, not until she wanted him in her bed. He never touched her. He was always so kind, so gentle. When Ramsey had taken her, it wasn’t loving or gentle or passionate; he didn’t appreciate her or worship her. He never _touched_ her… not in the way Podrick was.

Sansa pushed her fingers through his hair, kissing him with such passion and intensity. He worked his hands beneath her breast coverings until he had fidgeted with them enough for them to drop from her chest, leaving her completely exposed. Podrick tore his mouth away from her lips and found the mounds of her breasts. Sansa had started groaning, getting herself accustomed to having _him_ kissing her _there_. No one had ever paid such attention to her bosom before. Throwing her head back, her lips parted. _Oh… my… Gods!_ She nearly came undone when his tongue lapped over her nipples.

Sansa gripped the back of his neck; “ _Gods!_ Podrick…. “ She couldn’t speak. The way his mouth eagerly made love to her breasts in turn was doing some ungodly things to her core. She was hissing swears of surprise. Her underpants soaked with her arousal.

She threw her arms and legs around him as he lifted her up and slowly cared her to the bed, his mouth not once leaving her breasts. He laid her down carefully, positioned himself atop her, then _finally_ broke from making love to her nipples so he could once again capture her lips in a firey, fervent kiss. He somehow managed to work his hands between their bodies. His right hand traversed the length of her torso, skipping delicately over her belly. Further, further, and further down his hand went… until, at last, he was pushed it beneath the thin fold that protected her womanhood.

Carefully, meticulously, he _slowly_ pushed a finger inside of her, and another rubbed at the bud, like a rose, being ever so gently caressed. Sansa was moaning all manner of things. His finger twitched, beginning its slow and melodical movements inside her. His lips had skipped over her face, kissing each and every delicate highlight in turn. She attempted to follow, to capture his mouth so she might kiss it again, but his lips were very elusive to her desires. Podrick continued to fondle her, pushing his finger further, and then retracting… _slowly_ … and then deeper again… until a second had joined; Sansa was seeing stars. She was moving restlessly beneath him. Darkness was closing in. A tingling entrapped her limbs. When she came, he was sure to keep pace as wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through her.

At long last, Podrick retracted his fingers and dipped his head low. His lips skipped past her neck, over the mounds of her breasts, down the length of her torso… and stopped just before hitting her core. He took a moment, breathing in the sent of her arousal, and then pushed past the cumbersome fabric. His tongue had found her center. He drew circles there, the lightest of touches, yet evoking the greatest of pleasures. Sansa was sure she would come undone again at that very moment. The pressure inside her was something else. Exquisite. Instead of his tongue plunging between her folds, Podrick tugged the fabric away, carelessly tossing it aside. Then he raised up, crawling closer to where he started—hovering over her.

Sansa reached past his hips where she tugged at the lacing of his garment. Her hands work themselves between the fabric, pushing it away from his hips. She scooched down some so she might be able to continue working the fabric down his legs. Her body quickly recoiled. Podrick captured her eyes, her endlessly enrapturing blue eyes he could find himself getting lost in for days on end.

Her chest exploded with such focused heat just then, as they stared so attentively at each other. Their stare was longing, full of desire, panting with burning, unresolved passion. She cupped a hand beneath his jaw.This was a decision she made, to be with him, fully and completely. She had made the same decision once before… before she was sure of her love for him.

Podrick pressed himself against her, so she could feel him, but not yet all of him. With a singular thrust, he was inside her. He pushed, slowly, gently, at first —his mouth absorbed her cries and for a moment, he was worried he had hurt her. Podrick gave her time, allowing her to get adjusted and comfortable until he was almost completely buried within her.

The peak of her core tingled, ignited with raw heat and absolute intensity; “Oh, _gods_ …” Her entire body was shaking.

He pressed a kiss to her lips before his first thrust. His movements had been gradual at first, allowing Sansa to get familiar with him. She arched her back, pushing her breasts against his chest. Her hands fumbled. They began exploring every inch of him; his jaw, his shoulder blades, pressed against his back. Her nails dragged across his skin, arousing a trembling moan that started somewhere deep within his core and bubbled quickly to his surface.

She pressed her palms tight to his skin, whimpering lowly when his mouth no longer gave praise to hers. Instead, Podrick was kissing away from her mouth- curling his motions over her cheek bones, then down her jawline, and across her neck, suckling at the area where the artery that gushed her life force ran the full length of her neck and pulsated rapidly beneath the weight of his lips.

Hands roamed each other’s bodies; Sansa eventually discovered the small of his back…pressing them against his warm flesh. His lips drifted from her mouth, leaving her with emptiness, but found her neck and began kissing her there. His tongue fell from his mouth, licking and lapping at each part of it. Sansa’s head fell back. Her hands pulled from his back until they were pushing through his hair again, entwining themselves. His kisses found the underside of her jaw, then traversed the area of her mouth, pressing the corners but never her lips, and then eventually to her eyelids and forehead.

Sansa reached for him. Grasped his head. She drew him up… away… until they could look into each other’s eyes, and she could once again get lost in them. Something within him had been unearthed. Something primal. He could hardly breathe. He was only thinking of her, this moment, being so wholly wrapped up inside of her. He rasped her name, almost in a breathless whisper. His breath was warm and sweet on her skin. When she reached for him again, Podrick stretched her arms above her whilst tracing kisses on the underside of each one. He rocked forwards, thrusting his whole self into her body, his cock twitching, pulsing; the darkness was back. She timed her second climax perfectly, with him still nestled inside her.

He hadn’t withdrawn. His movements still. Still very much firm inside her, Sansa was begging him for more. She squeeze him from within. She was still in the midst of her ecstasy, wave after wave of pure pleasure. Eventually, he began thrusting into her, more smoothly and matched with equal power. Podrick felt it—the burning, rippling sensation that told him he was close. He began to withdraw from her, leaving her moaning, aching, crying for him not to. _No!_ She needed him inside. She needed to feel him. All of him. Sansa’s hands found his backside, they pinched him, drawing him back.

She had pressed tight to him. When his release came, he was still cradled between her thighs. They had kissed quite often during this time, distracting him from twitching. Sansa came to hold his head down by hers until he had finally relaxed, completely spent. He was breathing hard, trying to get himself down from such a high. Podrick would eventually roll away from her, withdrawing himself from between her thighs. He laid on his back, his chest moving rapidly, in and out, almost completely incapable of calming himself.

Sansa moved onto her side, her hands reaching to explore him. _Gods, woman…_ but she hadn’t climbed him. Instead, her fingers were drawing circles over his chest until her palm rested flat. Podrick turned his head, looked at her, and smiled. He didn’t think it was ever possible to feel this blissful. Tears were in his eyes, tears that eventually spilled down the sides of his face.

She removed her hand from his chest to brush his tears. "Why are you crying?" 

“I am just thankful we were able to see each other again,” He kissed the back of her hand. “and... I could never tell you before how much I loved you. The daughter of a noble lord and me... the dutiful squire."

"Ex-squire, remember? You are a knight now."

"Yes. That still doesn't erase all those years I have missed laying at your side, kissing your lips, making love to you--seeing you here is the best thing the Gods could have done."

Sansa shifted to her right side. Her hand rested on his shoulder. She cuddled up closer, nuzzling her naked body against his. “No one else is making another decision for me. Not today. Not any day. It shouldn’t have taken so long to realize what I _needed_ this whole time…”

“Sansa…” His body shifted, turning to face her; her eyes sparkled, swimming with unadulterated love; “…there is a life waiting for you in Winterfell. You are their queen. What could a Knight do for you?”

“Everything.” Tears prickled her eyes; suddenly Podrick’s heart had dropped to his stomach. “We have only ever before served others. We should be selfish for once. We _need_ to be..”

In two days hence, this whirlwind romance would have to draw to a close. They would have to return to their own lives, no matter how much of a hole it would leave behind.

_Let me be selfish._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot and bothered? Good, cause I didn’t think I had it in me to make a sexier than Braime sex scene lol. You are welcome :)


	5. Secrets That We Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Your visions will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”_  
>  ― C.G. Jung

Sansa awoke long after the sun crested over the mountains, casting a warm amber tinge over her face as vibrant rays of light streak in through the open window. Her eyes were still twitching behind closed lids, abandoned in a fictional world in which she didn’t need to be concerned with rules or obligation; where she could simply be _Sansa Stark_ , not Her Grace, not My Lady—just Sansa; a world in which her Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard Stark still lived, and her family was still together in Winterfell. Eventually, there would come a moment where she would always have to wake, and those dreams would always be _just_ that.

She yawned, stretching her arms above her head until her fingers scarcely brushed the headboard. Something felt… _off_. While King’s Landing was normally so warm, she was feeling quite _cold_. There was a strange absence of body heat she knew had been there the night before. Sansa’s eyes fluttered open, expecting to see a second body sleeping besides her. But, there was nothing; empty. Yet while the space next to her lacked a body, resting on the pillow was a dark red gillyflower. Sansa bolted upright and reached for it. She brought the flower to her nose, taking in a whiff of the perfume smell.

Sansa swung her legs from the bed. She grabbed a robe draped precariously over the back of a chair and threw it over her shoulders. A small plate of breakfast had been left for her—milk and cream, honey, a few grapes, pieces of bacon, and a small loaf of bread. She snatched a piece of bacon but before she could slice into the bread, there arose a heavy uproar coming from somewhere outside her balcony. Jerking at her robe, Sansa strode out onto the terrace and looked out over the edge. Somewhere down below her was a group—the City Watch, also known as the gold cloaks. While the Kingsguard were sworn to obey the king, the City Watch were defenders over the city inside—including the Red Keep—and the enforcers of the law, sworn only to the Iron Throne.

From behind her came a knock on her door; “Enter!” She called out, and she quickly stepped away from the balcony, tugging tightly at her robe.

In walked a handmaiden dressed in a thin flowery gown. A handmaiden, or handmaid, was a woman in service of a noblewoman of higher status. The tasks of a handmaiden varied depending on their origin. The woman assigned to Sansa was fare in face, likely not much younger than herself, with bright green eyes and soft brown curls. Beneath each of her eyes were dozens of freckles.

“What is the hour?” Sansa would ask.

The handmaiden curtsied; “It is almost midday, your grace,” the younger woman answered, then rose from her curtsy and set about her chores.

 _Midday!_ She was thinking; _How could I allow myself to sleep for so long?!_

Sansa would never have allowed such indulgence. She would have been awake long before now, going about her daily routine as normal. Her mental berating was brief. At that moment, it was Podrick’s face that came to mind and a reasoning why she hadn’t woken until now. Her thoughts took her to the aforementioned night— _oh_ , the things he had done to her body; it produced a smile, however fleeting.

Sansa had looked away. Still clutched in her right hand was the gillyflower left on her pillow. She held it close enough to her chest and shut her eyes, eliciting a distant memory. The flower’s scent had triggered something, something from her youth, of a moment where she was feeling the most vulnerable and _someone_ had shown her a great kindness. She must have forgotten about that; then again, so many things had been.

_________

_However cordial she and Tyrion had been, the developing relationship had taken a crushing blow when news of Robb and Catelyn’s death at the Red Wedding reached King’s Landing, and Sansa. It had been an event orchestrated by Tyrion’s father, Tywin Lannister. Sansa remained dejected for some time, hardly eating a meal despite encouragement from both Shae and Tyrion. Nightmares plagued her every night. Sansa would lay awake each and every night as of late, all the while thinking of her brother and mother, how Robb’s body was desecrated, how her mother’s throat was slit to the bone and her body discarded into the river like garbage._

_Sansa excused herself from the table, telling Tyrion she was going to the Godswood for solitude since it was the only place she could be alone with no one bothering her. She wasn’t going there for prayer, as she often did before, as Tyrion had suggested it might be good for her—she no longer prayed to the same gods as her mother had done, or to any god._

_There was something… something she hadn’t expected… waiting for her, a gift, of sorts. Laying precariously atop a rock by the sea was a light red gillyflower. Sansa stared, astonished. She looked around her, expecting someone to be standing in the bushes waiting for her to receive her gift. Well, she received it, but with no notice or idea of who left it for her. She brought it close to her nose and took a whiff, inhaling the flowery perfume scent._

_Later that evening, Tyrion came to her quarters with a small tray of food—salted pork, some duck sausage, potatoes, and honey cakes. She seemed less morose than before. Sansa told him she had returned to the Keep and laid down for a few hours. A nap seemed to do her some good. She could no longer deny food when her stomach rumbled at the sight. They didn’t speak. But when Tyrion pulled out a chair for her, she sat down with a gracious smile._

_He watched her eat, thankful the poor girl wasn’t starving herself. While Sansa was having her fill, Tyrion helped himself to a glass of wine. It was then that he noticed the red gillyflower sticking out of a glass vase with a blue hue; “Such a lovely flower,” he said, and Sansa looked up, her gaze questioning and curious. Tyrion pointed a finger towards the vase sitting on the mantle. “Is there another admirer I should know about?”_

_She only looked at it briefly before fixing her eyes on her husband; “I assumed it was you who had left it there for me…” But Tyrion’s frown, and shake of his head, confused Sansa._

_If he hadn’t left the flower, who had?_

_________

This gillyflower in her hand was the same tinge as the one left for her before.

Sansa knew now what she didn’t know then—that it was Podrick who left her the gillyflower. Such a kind, gracious gesture at a time she needed the most kindness.

The handmaiden, complete with folding the sheets, now looked at Sansa; “Oh!” She exclaimed quite exuberantly, nearly startling the visiting queen. “Such a _beautiful_ flower, your grace! It is called a gillyflower.”

“A what?”

“A gillyflower. It grows along the eastern coast of King’s Landing, by the Godswood.” The handmaiden stepped away from the bed, approaching Sansa. “They grow in a wide variety of colors including pink, white, red, yellow, purple, and scarlet. And all colors have a different meaning.”

“I was oblivious of this.” Sansa inspected the flower, eyeing over each of its red pedals. “Different flowers bloom in the North, many of a different kind of beauty…” She admired the gillyflower for a short while before gesturing for the handmaiden to continue; there was a story here she was eager to learn.

“White symbolizes purity and luck, light red symbolizes admiration, pink symbolizes gratitude, yellow of disappointment or rejection, and purple of capriciousness…”

As the handmaiden spoke, Sansa couldn’t help but feel a sense of childlike giddiness as if she were being told a spurring tale of adventure and fantasy.

She pointed at her flower, indicating its pedals; it shown in a reddish hue, unlike an average red—almost blood-like. “And…. What of this one? It is a much deeper, darker shade than you spoke of.”

“Ah! This one, your grace… this one symbolizes love and affection.” The handmaiden flashed a warm smile at Sansa. “It means you have an admirer! Someone loves you. A great prince or a lord, perhaps..”

 _Or a knight_ , Sansa thought, grinning; but only _her_ heart would know.

The handmaiden dutifully returned to her chores. Sansa tugged at her robe a bit tighter then ambled herself to the small table where the tray of food still sat. She picked at it though maybe only slightly interested. She wasn’t particularly hungry this morning.

A knock on her door disturbed her thoughts.

Sansa stepped forwards to grab it, but the handmaiden had gotten there first. Once she opened the door, they both saw that it was King Jon who stood there, dressed in royal garb befitting his title; except, there was a distinct lack of crown. It was too cumbersome when he didn’t need it.

The handmaiden curtsied; “Your grace…”

Jon nodded and politely smiled at the young woman. He briefly caught sight of his cousin—thinking of her as such instead of a sister was still somewhat odd to him, since they grew up as siblings, but he was getting used to the idea more and more.

“Rheanya,” he spoke, his voice soft, “I wonder if I might have a word with my cousin.”

“Of course, your grace.”

She curtsied once again, to both of them, before stepping outside to leave them. She wouldn’t go far, Jon knew this; she would stay right outside the door until he had need of her.

Focusing on Sansa, Jon took a few steps closer; “I’m happy to see you again, cousin.” He was smiling. He was glad this was a time in which they didn’t worry about the threat of White Walkers, or of Cersei Lannister; a time in which Jon sat on the throne as the rightful heir, side-by-side with his queen. “Due to the nature of the occasion, I haven’t been able to see much of you. And of course, my other duties keep me quite busy. I was hoping we could… talk… like old times…”

Old times. Right. Never mind the fact she was literally _naked_ beneath that thin night robe of hers. Sansa found herself nodding in agreement, despite the fact she should be dressing for the day, which had already worked itself into the afternoon.

Jon closed further distance between them; “Being queen has suited you, I think. I-I apologize for not being at your coronation.” He thought back to his own, how nervous and unprepared he felt, but at least he had Daenerys at his side to ease some discomfort.

“There is nothing to apologize for, _your grace_.” Hearing it from her own lips felt natural, but saying it in front of Jon, addressing him in a formal title, _did_ still feel somewhat odd.

“Sansa, please,” he started, then, “behind these walls, I am simply Jon Snow and you are Sansa Stark. We are family; there is no need for formalities between us.”

Despite the mere inch that separated them in height, it did not stop Jon from placing a gentle kiss on Sansa’s cheek. He smiled once more. Only then, after a beat, did he notice the gillyflower she still clutched between her fingers.

Sansa was confused by the change in facial expression…until it dawned on her—

But it was Jon, not her, who spoke; “Who is he, dearest cousin? Who is this secret admirer of yours? A nobleman here in this castle perhaps? Someone I have yet to be introduced to…”

Sansa’s heart galloped. “He is someone I have treasured dearly for a long time… though it has taken me equally as long to finally realize it…” _Please don’t ask me further questions_ , she was thinking. As much as she loved her cousin, the thought of keeping her romantic interest a secret was tantalizing.

“You are a woman grown, Sansa. I cannot tell you what you should and should not do. I only ask you to remain vigilant. I do not wish to see you harmed again by those who ought to love you.”

“Always.”

_Podrick is not Joffrey, and he is not Ramsey; he will not harm me. Not now, not ever._

Jon nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. “When will I be acquainted with this nobleman who has robbed your heart so?”

“In due time, Jon.”

“Ah, I see.” He chuckled; he, too, remembered the days as children when he would play knight to Sansa’s princess and all she spoke of was the rescuing of damsels in distresses, and secret loves of princes and princess.

This sounded like one of her fairytales and he was more than happy to indulge her. Doing so meant he got to see a piece of her he thought she buried a long while ago.

Sansa _briefly_ looked taken aback; “See what?”

“It is a _secret_ romance. I understand more than most about those. Do not worry yourself, Sansa; I will not tell your secret.”

He held a finger to his lips… and then slowly, very slowly, broke out into a fit of merriment. It took Sansa a bit longer to do so but soon enough, the cousins were in the midst of a laugh neither have shared together for such a long time. It felt good to be able to do so.

Eventually, as the cousins recovered from their fit of laughter, Jon added; “You know, sometimes I forget how it feels just to laugh again. To be happy. We’ve spent so long unhappy that it almost feels—”

“—strange?”

“Yes, strange.”

Though born as Aegon Targaryen, he chose to keep his bastard name—Jon Snow—because that was the name he grew up with and that was the name everyone knew him as. After learning the fate of his half-brother, also named Aegon, he didn’t feel right using his birth name. He had been raised alongside Eddard Stark’s lawful children, his true parentage kept secret from everyone, including himself. He did not learn of this until it was Samwell Tarly who cornered him beneath Winterfell one night, as he was in the catacombs lighting candles in remembrance of his family and spilled the preverbal beans.

Jon didn’t _feel_ any different than he was before his true parentage was known to him, and subsequently the rest of the known world. The only thing that changed for him, now, was a crown and a throne. He was finding his new home in King’s Landing to be ideal, but he still missed his family—Bran was here, of course, but Sansa remained in Winterfell and their only communication was through letters, no one had heard from Arya… Robb and Rickon, Gods rest their souls, and then there was Theon….

Theon wasn’t a trueborn Stark… but he was close enough to a brother as his blood cousins had been to him. On a deeper level, Jon was missing Theon more than enough now. He had forgiven Theon for all of his transgressions, as it had been in his heart to do so after seeing Sansa warming up to him again. It burned a hole in him when he had to watch his cousin burn Theon’s body and watch the depressing look befall her face.

Sighing, Jon reached for Sansa’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I do love you, Sansa. Do not forget that.”

“I would never.”

Jon kissed her knuckles. “Join the Dany and I for dinner tonight would you? It is your last night here. I wish to spend it with my dear cousin.”

As it had done in the past, Podrick’s face came to mind. _My last night here… I ought to make it amount for something…_

“I would be delighted to.”

There was a moment’s pause between them, before Sansa took visual note she was still only wrapped up in nothing but a silk robe. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Um, might I get myself dressed now?”

“Oh, of course.” The maid was called back in. “I’ll come for you later.”

Sansa nodded as he left.

~.~.~.~.~

Tonight’s meal was abundant in flavor and color, the likes of which Sansa hadn’t seen in an age: salted pork, duck sausages, lamprey pie—a meat pie made from eel-like fish known as lampreys—sour cherries, lemon cakes—her favorite—and custard. Being away from King’s Landing for so long had made her nearly forget the different ways in which the Southrons would dine when compared to those in the Northern regions.

Due in part to the arctic climate of the North, agriculture is more challenging to cultivate than it is in the southron parts of Westeros, and the Northern lords are significantly less wealthy than their southron counterparts. Because of these factors, food in the North was predominantly centered on meats—fish, fowl, etc.—and the occasional root vegetables, certain hardy fruits, nuts, and maybe some berries. Their meals were not on the same level or magnitude as the nobles in the Westerlands, or King’s Landing.

In the southern territories, where agriculture is much easier, fruits and vegetables are a much bigger element in the regional cuisines. Food was generally prepared in various ways, depending on the house, but usually fairly elaborate: cream, sugar, and pastries were patterned into whimsical shapes. King’s Landing was much more sumptuous, enjoying the exotic fruits—blackberries, crabapples, lemons, plums, cherries, etc.—yet still offered a flavoring of meats and fish, particularly shellfish. Diversity was easily more prominent; meals were often served in multiple courses and were often made with exotic ingredients.

Sansa’s stomach growled at such a lavish selection. She didn’t know where to start. She looked to where Jon sat, and Daenerys right next to him—both in deep conversation. Asking for their opinion seemed like a moot point. Someone, she assumed one of the castle servants, walked up and suggested the lamprey pie. Sansa gazed it, as if sizing it up first, before she latched onto the idea. The servant served her a slice, and she helped herself to some sour cherries and a couple lemon cakes. She nodded her thanks to the servant who bowed gracefully and took a step back.

She picked at her lamprey pie. It was flavorful enough, but she was sidetracked. Too much so, perhaps, to truly get a taste for it. 

Just as her thoughts drifted to home, a new diversion entered. One she hadn’t even realized until it was Daenerys that called for him: _Ser Podrick!_ And suddenly, Sansa was aware just how fast her chest was pounding. He waltzed in, bringing with him a decanter of red wine. The moment the pair saw each other, she could swear she had forgotten how to breathe. Had the room dropped a few degrees? She felt chilled, like something had crawled up her spine. And Podrick… as try as he might to not look at her--there were definitely glances.

Subtly clearing her throat, Sansa returned to staring at her food, putting herself in the mindset that this was somehow much more appeasing than knowing Podrick was standing just a few feet from her. He poured a small amount of Arbor red into Daenerys’ chalice as she held out towards him – _thank you_ , she added – and he did the same for Jon. By the time he reached to where Sansa was sitting, she had to forcefully bite her bottom lip and avoid his eye contact. Jon and Daenerys had no clue… nor would they.

Podrick queried; “Some wine, your grace?” And it was the tone in his voice that had her knees nearly shaking beneath the table. She quietly thanked the Gods for the thick pleaded dress she wore.

There held a pregnant pause between them, in which she could swear her body temperature had risen a few degrees. Her cheeks felted heated as blood pulsed beneath flesh.

She remembered the gillyflower found on her pillow this morning, notably the coloring. _Dark red_ ; to articulate the profound sentiment of love and affection. She knew it had been Podrick who left her the flower…just as she was so sure in her heart that it had been the same man—then just a young teenager, like herself—whose light red gillyflower had been left for her those years ago.

Sansa didn’t quite catch herself in time, however, when they made the briefest of eye contact and he offered up a momentarily virtuous smile.

Suddenly remembering her manners, she held out her chalice and merrily accepted the wine; “Thank you…Ser Podrick,” and immediately took to sipping the alcohol as she subsequently removed her eyes from his face.

She thoroughly enjoyed the taste of it as the liquid dripped down the back of her throat. As a child growing up, her father would rarely allow her more than one or two sips at feast. She grew more accustomed to wine once she was in King’s Landing where there was more of it to go around.

The grapes for wine making never grow further than the Riverlands, and they’re often small and tart, though make drinkable wine; however, not the best of quality, either. Those wines come from the warmer fields of the Reach, in particular from the island of the Arbor where many wines are produced yet the best of which is arguably the Arbor gold—rich and fruity in its flavor. Ale is also fairly common in the south whereas “black beer”—likely another name for lager—was more common in the North. The black beer produced in White Harbor was in particular high quality, some people paying almost as much for it as imported wines.

Sansa didn’t care for the black beer from White Harbor; wine was much more delectable to her tastes. As a girl, she was only permitted a single cup at feasts, but she had since allowed herself to indulge more.

Tonight, she might be needing quite a few more… depending how things went.

She kept glancing up from her plate, shooting the sporadic look at Jon and Daenerys, seeing if they were paying attention, then stole a look at the handsome knight standing to the right of the dragon queen. He remained as stoic as ever, though she swore she could nearly see the crease of a smile on his mouth.

_________

_Podrick had woken just shy of dawn, as was his normality._

_In just a few moments, he would be rolling himself from bed, dressing in his Royal Guardsman attire, and grooming himself for the day._

_Not yet._

_Looking at Sansa—the way she slept, the way her hair pillowed under her head, the steady sound of her breathing…_

_So entranced with her beauty, Podrick leaned over and pressed his lips to her brow. This sudden yet gentle movement had woken her. He hadn’t meant to. But when she was opened her eyes and she was staring at him, he couldn’t help but be in love with her more. He took the perfect opportunity to capture her voluptuous lips. She responded, in kind. Her hand palmed the side of his face, her fingers gently stroking his skin._

_Podrick was silent, allowing his breathing, and hers, to be the only sounds in the room, until it was her head that lolled into the crook of his neck, and it was his flesh she was kissing, and—oh! That spot, right there… where his jugular met with his left collar bone._

_He was groaning._

_The back of his hand caressed her shoulder blade, and then her shoulder, and her arm, until his entire hand was palming her breast. Now it was Sansa’s turn to groan. And groan she did._

_Her kisses traversed his collar bone, and then laterally up, up, and up his neck, past his jawline, until their mouths took possession of each other._

_They locked themselves in a firey passion for what seemed like a good while, until Podrick moved away from making love to her mouth – Sansa whined for the sudden absence of his hot breath against hers – and inched his way down her body at every angle; her long neck, her collar bone, her breasts – his tongue lapping at each of her nipples – and further, further down until—Oh by the Seven! Sansa squirmed; Podrick’s mouth had found her clit, moist and damp and wanting with pleasure._

_His tongue flickered out, slurping from the wet cavern between her legs. She hissed. Her hands rested on his shoulders. They gave him a tight squeeze the more his tongue pleasured her. Her body was shaking. Podrick’s tongue flickered upwards again, causing such an eruption of jubilation from Sansa’s mouth. She… she was getting close. Her body was arching._

_“Oh, oh, oh, P-Podrick… I—”_

_And then she did, and she had pushed her hands hard against his shoulders as he milked her, until she was spent, and slowly coming down from her ecstasy._

_He crawled over her, eased her thighs apart with his right knee, and pushed between them. The tip of him only teased at her entrance, tugging a peppered cry from her throat. Sansa’s hips bucked to meet him. Her hands cupped his arse, giving it a tight squeeze. When he moved, he moved fast, thrusting hard, deep, and without hesitation._

_Podrick wiggled his body until he pushed a hand between them. Sansa was crying his name when his fingers found her clit again, and then smoothed over the nub amid her folds._

_He stared at her face, mapped her sapphire eyes, drank in the visionary goddess laying beneath him. She was panting hard, her chest heaving, as was his. His fingers moved quickly, teasing her relentlessly, as his cock throbbing and ached and pumped inside her of again, and again, and again… each thrust faster and more desperate than the one before it._

_Podrick’s hand eventually slipped from her clit – Sansa moaned, “Please, Podrick, please… “; he smiled, delighted to be hearing his name said like that. His thrusting was more diligent, more charitable, and she drank it up. His hand looped under her knee. Both legs coiled around his waist, her ankles crossing over the other. Podrick resumed kissing her. His cock twitched—he was close. She could feel herself coming undone. Again._

_When she did, it was his name on her lips that she was screaming._

_His thrusting gradually slowed—once, twice, and then—Oh! A primitive roar bubbled in his throat, erupting from his mouth as he came, spilling into her with such force and passion and desire._

_It took time for them to come down from their high. Podrick stared at her; she was smiling at him._

_________

The event, which only transpired this morning, took hold in memory for Sansa. She caught herself unintentionally thinking about it. Doing so caused her to desire him again. In every which way possible. But, she tempered her unnatural thoughts and focused on her meal, which had gone untouched since her mind drifted.

Jon glanced over. “Sansa, you’ve barely touched your food,” he noted, which had gotten Daenerys’ attention as well.

“Shall I have something else brought?”

Sansa shook her head; “Oh, no, it’s fine. I’m just… distracted.”

“What else has gotten your attention?”

“Oh…” Her eyes briefly drifted longways, until she just barely had visibility of Podrick. “It’s nothing…” There, in the corner of her mouth, was a smirk much too well hidden.

_They don’t need to know_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five chapters in and I'm still in King's Landing with our lovebirds, lol. I apologize this chapter didn't have much of Podrick in it but I _promise_ to include him in the next chapter <3\. Considering it is Sansa's last night in the capital, there might be some more sexy times ;)
> 
> Also, in reference to the gillyflower I described in this chapter, it's closely related to the carnation so all the information I used about the different colors and their meanings come from that. I decided on dark red for the flower because that symbolizes love so it made sense Podrick would leave _that one_ there, and then I tied it back to a memory of Sansa's, putting more meaning into their past.
> 
> Also, also, Gilly is named after this flower ^_^


	6. This Time, This Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The Cycle of True Love: First I see and think I love, then I say I know I love, today and forever more I decide to love.”_  
>  ― Michael Sweeney

She returned to her quarters that evening with her cousin hanging off one arm. They chatted and laughed and enjoyed each other’s company. But when it came time for her to bid him a goodnight, she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek and sent him on his way.

Now, it was just her; her and Rheanya.

The handmaiden curtsied low upon seeing Winterfell’s queen, then immediately set about drawing up a bath for the woman. Sansa stood by, quietly, contemplating all that she had seen and done since her arrival. It was quickly dawning on her that this was her final night in the capital, which inevitably meant her final night in Podrick’s company; she was hoping he would visit her chambers this evening. She could bid him a _proper_ farewell. The more she thought on it, the more she hated herself for doing so.

Sansa wanted to be selfish for once. She wanted to stay. Maybe give up her crown. She could probably get herself adjusted to King’s Landin—well, no, she couldn’t. Once was enough. And… she couldn’t abandon her people like that. She had fought long and hard enough. She wanted nothing more than to be selfish but that was the wishful thinking of a child. She had duties and responsibilities; she couldn’t be selfish. Many were counting on her even if there was that part of her that wasn’t looking forward to returning. There was little doubt in her mind she would pressured into marrying, producing heirs…

…She could practically hear Cersei Lannister’s voice echoing, even now, long after the former queen was long dead, and her body reduced to ashes: _You’re a woman now. Do you have any idea what that means?_

_I am fit to bear children for the king.._

_A prospect that once delighted you—bringing little princes and princesses into the world… the greatest honor for a queen._

After Ramsey, she had sworn off the concept of matrimony all together, so the prospect of children hadn’t even phased her. If the lords wanted an heir off her, she could always name someone? They probably wouldn’t agree to that, though. They might insist that Sansa’s heir be from the Stark bloodline. Well, if she could find Arya…

Arya was long gone. Only the Gods know where she went. And even if she _did_ know where her sister was and by some means managed to persuade her to return to Winterfell, there was little to no chance of her _acceding_ to Sansa’s proposal. Arya was a resolutely independent woman, unconstrained by social outlooks such as courtly virtues. She would rather wander aimlessly through their world than tie herself down to the normal gender expectations of her sex. Sansa knew what happened between her sister and the Baratheon boy; trying to force Arya to conform was akin to kicking a wasps’ nest.

She could easily bear a child out of wedlock and legitimize him or her as a Stark; she’d be within her right as queen to do so. No one would go for that though. Sansa caught herself thinking about Podrick again. When she returned to her home, he could come with her. There’s a chance that, perhaps, he could…

No. She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t beg of him to leave behind this life, a life he fought so fiercely to build for himself. Surrender the Kingsguard?

_Let me be selfish…_

She cannot be… not like this. Royal Guard were sworn for life. They were regarded as the finest of knights in all the Seven Kingdoms. Podrick had certainly earned such an honorable title a thousand times over. Requesting of him to disinherit everything would be such a disgrace. As much as her heart would want her to, Sansa could not bring herself to be _that_ selfish.

Rheanya checked the bath water temperature, flinging excess off her fingers, then walked over to where Sansa stood and proceeded to help her undress. Sansa had said naught in the interim, opting instead to reflect on her thoughts in reticence. She had been grateful that her handmaiden hadn’t said anything either, choosing not to question why Sansa looked so melancholy after just returning from a dinner with the king and queen. Even if Rheanya had asked, Sansa wouldn’t have told her.

She clambered into the tub and laid back, some of the bathwater sloshing over the edges. Her shoulders slouched, her entire body relaxing, becoming less rigid. It was not long until she drifted off…

___ ___________

_The raised dead fell. The Night King was defeated. For Tyrion and Sansa, it meant relief. For so many others, it meant something different. It meant death. There would be plenty of survivors… but would be plenty of dead as well, and the task of gathering the bodies would be left for the living…_

_Sansa was shaken. Never once had she ever raised a weapon, much less used one. Still, clutched tightly in her right hand, was a dragonglass dagger. She had used on a few wights—there was Gilly and her son Sam, and of course Missandei; it was pure adrenaline that fueled her when she thrusted the blade into the backs of the wights attacking them._

_Afterwards, after they were sure the dead were defeated, after those in hiding slowly crawled from whatever space they could find, it was Sansa and Tyrion who stood in front of them. Her hands were shaking, though she tried not to notice them._

_And then… the door! It rattled!_

_Women were shrieking. Children were crying. Sansa tried to soothe them, tried giving them words of encouragement that the dead were defeated. Whoever – or whatever – was attempting to breach the door was friend, not foe. That is what she told herself as well; she didn’t know for certain, but it was a decent thought of comfort, at least._

_The door rattled again… and again… and again, bringing that much more ambiguous trepidation to their beating hearts. And then, it burst open, and for a moment, they were afraid…_

_It was Podrick! Beaten, battered, bloodied, and bruised, the young squire came bursting in through the door with sword in hand. Never before had Sansa been so utterly relieved of anything! He surveyed the survivors, looking them all in the eye, one by one. He breathed deeply, shaken to his core but thankful he survived. When at last he was looking upon Tyrion, his former lord, and Sansa, the woman he—_

_Sansa was in his arms before he could breathe again. His tired, weary arms wrapped around her, snugging her body close enough to him as possible. Though he stuck of death, dripped of blood—his own and others—she didn’t seem to mind it. She seemed all too grateful to see him alive and breathing. She buried her face in his neck, taking in the musky scent, delighting in the throbbing of the vein beneath his skin. His pulse—the miracle of miracles that assured her he had lived through battle._

_Podrick held her tight to him. She began to sob, salty tears mixing in with blood; both new and old. She didn’t care._

____________

The handmaiden woke her, fearing she would drown otherwise; “Your grace! Your grace!” This startled her, but she bolted upright, “You should not fall asleep in the bath, your grace.” She was dismissed with a wave of Sansa’s hand.

“I am quite well, Rheanya,” she insisted; it was just a dream. “Do not worry yourself.” She sat forwards a bit more, bringing her knees tight to her chest before standing. She welcomed the handmaiden’s assistance in stepping out of the tub, and gladly took the towel offered to her. “Leave me for the night. I wish to dress for bed and read a little before I depart tomorrow.”

Nodding, Rheanya had gone.

Sansa ambled closer to her bed and dropped her towel. As she reached for her nightgown, there came a racket from the doorway; had her handmaiden not shut the door proper? She immediately reached for her towel to conceal herself.

Someone had knocked. And then again. Before Sansa could tell the person on the other side to wait until she was decent, the door creaked open. She had a curse ready… until it was Podrick who stepped inside…

Seeing Sansa in such a state of undress, he turned a marvelous shade of red; “I do not wish to disturb you. I only wish to—” She interrupted; her voice saddened.

“—to come say farewell,” she finished, and Podrick nodded.

He shut the door behind him… and bolted it.

Sansa took a step backwards, shaking her head. “We… we shouldn’t. I, I will not wake tomorrow knowing this will be goodbye…” Her words contradicted her wishes; while she wanted this, more than anything, she kept telling herself they couldn’t be selfish.

“Then we should make our final night count,” he added, and soon he was crossing the room until he stood in front of her, “don’t you think so?”

Before she could blink, or breathe, and before her next heartbeat, Podrick had taken her into his arms. Whatever it was in her that fueled her logic had all but disbanded.

 _No_ , she thought, _we cannot be selfish as I wanted…_

But she was. _They_ were. Podrick and Sansa proceeded to make love, once more, and it was glorious. And afterwards, as they lay within each other’s arms, staring into each other’s arms, he kept thinking how he wished for a life in which they could be selfish. As mentioned prior, Sansa had another life waiting for her in Winterfell. Just as Podrick had one here in King’s Landing. He would want so badly to be with her, standing next to her through her life… but then logic would argue otherwise.

Sometimes loving someone meant letting them go, no matter how much it would bring pain and sorrow to the other person.

 _If she asked it of me,_ he thought _, I would go with her…_

They fell asleep soon after, letting their dreams take them to a place they wouldn’t have to worry about duty or obligation to each other. They _could_ be selfish, for once in their lives, and not allow others to dictate where to go, what to do, how to act. Just them. Only them.

Podrick wished to grant himself one last moment with her so he could be there as she woke. Consequences be damned.

~.~.~.~.~

Everyone was waiting on the docks to bid their farewells – first, there was Gendry; a formerly unacknowledged bastard son of King Robert Baratheon, legitimized by Queen Daenerys, and inherited all titles formally held by his father prior to ascension to the throne.

Next, there was Bronn of the Blackwater; Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach, and founder of his house. He was sarcastic, held a blackened sense of humor, and pragmatic, amoral philosophy for life. When approached once to be Master of Coin, he quite nearly accepted… before it was Jaime, the King’s Hand, who laughed at the prospect; Bronn, unfortunately, agreed with him.

And finally, there was Sansa.

Daenerys shared her gratitude and farewells with her… and then it was Jon’s turn. The cousins took a bit longer, revealing in their shared bond. He didn’t worry about when he would hear from her again because he knew she would be writing him when she arrived home; she _promised_ she would. Once Jon and Dany had their time saying their farewells, it was Jaime and Brienne. The animosity between the Lannister and Sansa had been strong, especially after everything they had been through, but she learned to accept him… more so after he ventured north to fulfill his vow to fight for the living.

___ ___________

_Kingslayer—a man without honor, sworn sword to his king, Aerys Targaryen, until he drove his sword into that king's back, betraying every vow he ever took. The story was almost as legendary as the act itself. It followed Jaime like a shadow; every step he took, every move he makes—it haunted him like a bad dream he could not wake from. Except, he was awake, and he was living it. But if being awake was like living a lie than he must be living more of a truth when asleep, when he could turn away from being judged. Brienne was able to see through him once, into the man no one knew him as; he told her the hard truth about the Mad King, the story no one in the Seven Kingdoms knew._

_Sansa spoke up; she'd been silent, up until now; "You're right. We can't trust him." Daenerys, and every other lord or lady sitting in that room now all looked to the Lady of Winterfell. "He attacked my father in the streets, he tried to destroy our house and my family- " she indicated towards Daenerys- "-the same as he did yours."_

_"You want me to apologize? I won't!" Jaime sucked in a breath; he could probably hang for his words, probably deserved it, among other things, but he continued on; "We were at war. Everything I did for my house and my family. I'd do it all again." Swallowing a tiny lump into his belly, he took a step; the Unsullied standing at Jon's side gripped hard his weapon, as a few people inched to move against the Lannister cunt, and Jaime tried not to imagine his head rolling onto the floor as Grey Worm lobbed it off his shoulders. "Your grace, milady—I won't ask for forgiveness because I can't. I can't give you what you seek—because the man you abhor so much no longer exists."_

___ ___________

He was right in the assumption; that man no longer existed. Now, Sansa had come to regard him as something else. Maybe not quite a friend but they were somewhat cordial to each other these days.

Brienne attempted a bow, but Sansa wasn’t having it.

___ ___________

_Brienne exhaled slowly, releasing the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding; avoiding the gazes and the suspicious looks from the others as she pushed herself to stand, cross the room, and put herself between Jaime and Daenerys's piercing glare; she disputed, "You don't know me well, your Grace, but I know Ser Jaime. He is a man of honor. I was his captor once. But when we were both taken prison and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me—and lost his hand because of it." Her gaze shifted from the dragon queen to Sansa, and she was sure her heart was pounding enough to start singing. "Without him, milady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armored me, and sent me to find you and bring you home… because he had sworn an oath to your mother…"_

_Bran had remained silent for the better part of this gathering; but he had been watching, and he'd been reading them like a book, and he had been studying the way Jaime and Brienne acted, taking note of the heightened awareness. "The things we do for love." It was emotional, to the fact, and managed to instill a silence unlike the one broken only by the crackle of fire._

_And suddenly, every last person in that room had all been looking at the young lord; including Brienne, whose blood had run hot in her veins and whose breathing had sharpened in her chest. His words had pushed a dagger through her heart; her mind called back a moment between them, before this moment, as he informed her of Jaime's lone arrival, though not being too direct. Brienne realized that Bran had known the entire time, and he knew she would stand for Jaime, and vouch for him as she was doing now._

_Daenerys took a minute, once she had come back into herself, and then her glare was on Jaime; "The only fact of the matter is that you are standing here because of the small mercies we have granted you." Small mercies—it wasn't something Jaime deserved; Sansa knew this, Daenerys knew this. The dragon queen wanted him dead the moment she learned of him crossing into Winterfell. There was only one reason Jaime Lannister was still breathing—and that reason was standing in front of him._

_Sansa had no cause in the world to doubt the woman's courage or loyalty. Watching Brienne speaking on Ser Jaime's behalf had filled her soul with joy. It definitely wasn't a matter of question; she knew how Brienne felt towards the Kingslayer. "Lady Brienne, I trust you with my life. If you trust him with yours…then we should let him stay…"_

____________

Sansa disconnected from their embrace.. and then looked somewhere off in the distance, past Brienne, for someone else. She desperately wanted him to be here, to at least see her off, but she would never let him go if he had been here. Maybe it was for the best…

Sansa was reluctant to leave but she knew Podrick had been right—they _couldn’t_ be selfish, not when there were others counting on them.

As much as it pained her heart, Sansa stepped into that carriage and sat back as the horse master spurred them on and away from King’s Landing. She had waited, and watched out the opened window, as if she thought Podrick would appear at the last moment, waving her off, wishing her the best of luck… and she would know his love had gone with her…

When the carriage traveled a far enough distance from the capital, and Sansa resigned herself to the fact she wouldn’t be seeing Podrick, her body slunk back into the seat. She took the moment to wipe away her tears. Regardless of how heartbroken, she knew they would always have those nights together… wrapped up in each other’s arms, their naked bodies entwined—

Sansa was fighting back tears just thinking about it, thinking about what they once had, and understanding what could not be. The more she shifted, the more she tried distancing her mind—it hadn’t worked. She was thinking of him. Why hadn’t he been there to see her off?

After adjusting her dress, she reached into her bodice where a special letter had been kept. The seal of the Lady Commander on the back and her name written on the front. Sansa broken the seal and unfolded the letter.

___ ___________

_Dearest Sansa…_

_There has been no other in my life who has brought me as much happiness as you have. You have shown me a kind of love I have never known before. All the encouragement you have given me through the years we have known each other, but more so in these last few days, have been the best I could have hoped for. I was shy, and nervous, and hesitant when I asked you to dance with me but all I knew was how much I wanted you in my arms. We were strangers once, scarcely making eye contact, but I have loved you even then._

_You have successfully brought a joy and warmth to my heart. I felt… alive. Being apart from you now is the most unnatural feeling. The distance is great but know that my heart travels with you. Knowing I cannot touch you or kiss you or love you as you should be. I don’t know how reassuring reading that will be, but I want you to know that I will always love you. You have no idea how you have changed my life for the better._

_I know that one day, maybe not too long from now, our lives will be changing once more. Perhaps in another one neither of us will expect. Take comfort in knowing I will be thinking of you always. You have my heart… now and always…_

_All my love,_

_Podrick…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know _where_ the inspiration for this chapter came. I started writing it this afternoon shortly after lunch and did not stop for HOURS. I just kept writing and writing and you know what? It was amazing. I loved it!
> 
> Don't worry though, this isn't the end. I don't know how many more chapters I will be writing but I do know there will be more. I will keep going until I am completely satisfied with what I have written


	7. These Empty Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Beyond the edge of the world there’s a space where emptiness and substance neatly overlap, where past and future form a continuous, endless loop. And, hovering about, there are signs no one has ever read, chords no one has ever heard.”_  
>  ― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Dawn approached.

There would be a slow rise of activity in the castle by now; kitchen servants prepping for the morning fast, squires rising from their quarters--doing such things as running errands for their masters, keeping the weaponry and armor clean, and caring for the horses in the stables.

Had it been any other day, Podrick would have woken before now. But instead, he continued lying in bed, wholly wide-awake…listening to the draws of evened breaths as Sansa remained sleeping beside him.

A moment later, he was gawking at the ceiling—ruminating quietly to himself; it was better this way. No one could hear his thoughts and worse yet, question potential motives. Podrick would disappear into a world with just his own ingenuity if could. It was this private world of his—accessed only through his mind—where he didn’t wake up knowing that Sansa was leaving for Winterfell. This world was only for them, where they could continue being selfish and couldn’t care less what others wanted for them.

Podrick knew Sansa was virtuous no longer. Women were generally expected to remain virgins until their wedding night; this was more so important for the noblewoman. The loss of a noblewoman’s maidenhead prior to marriage could diminish her reputation. Many men might refuse such a woman if the woman was no longer virtuous. Ser Jason Lannister had taken the virginity of Lady Alys Stackspear, gotten a child on her, and married her.

It physically disgusted Podrick to know Sansa had been handled with such brutality. Her virtue was not something that should be purloined but given freely to a lord who would honor her, who would treat her fairly…someone she wouldn’t have reason to fear.

It was difficult _not_ to envision what a potential life beyond King’s Landing would be like. Even if what he wished for in his heart was possible, would he even be accepted as someone of Sansa’s equal? No, likely not. Even still, it was a nice thought and it would probably keep a smile on his face long after she left.

His future. Her future. _Their_ future.

The thought was still fresh in his mind when his eyes shifted away from the ceiling, his head turned, and he was looking upon the sleeping blue-eyed lady next to him. He smiled then, imagining a crown upon her head, he stands beside her… and someday, her womb quickening with his child – _their_ child; conceived because of the love two people bore for each other.

Podrick briefly allowed himself a moment to reach for Sansa. His fingers pushed through her hair, curling a few strands behind her ear.

His mind went adrift, imagining what a child of theirs would look like. A boy, perhaps, with her beautiful blue eyes and red hair, or maybe a girl, yes, a girl, and she’d be like her mother—fierce, powerful, honorable. She would have his brown eyes and her mother’s smile. The more he considered the possibilities, the more his heart felt complete.

He brushed a thumb across her jawline, lightly caressing her neck with his hand.

Sansa shifted as her breathing hitched; Podrick recoiled his hand as she stirred, “…Podrick…?” She hadn’t opened her eyes to see him, but she was awake; the guilt in his face of waking her, the look of almost sadness in his eyes.

“No, shh… quiet now,” he pressed his lips to the bridge of her nose; she had not opened her eyes, “Go back to sleep, my lady.” A queen she may be but to him, she would always be his _lady_. She shifted only once more before her breathing evened out and he knew she was sleeping once again.

Podrick was one again left along with just a reflection… a contemplation of the misery he would soon come to know once she walked out those doors…

___ ___________

_The person once known as Tohgo Rivers—a claimed bastard of the Riverlands—now roared with rage and icy blue eyes as a wight, a reanimated corpse raised from death. He advanced on the young squire, baring his teeth, gripping the hilt of his sword. There was no logic left in him—only malice. Podrick backed into a corner with his weapon raised up in front of him. Tohgo snapped, clawed, and growled at him. The terrified squire pressed his sword against the wight’s breast. This left the wight momentarily unbalanced, but recovered and shoved Podrick to the stone._

_The squire’s sword thrusted upward into the wight’s chest, piercing through his breast bone. For the second time that night, Tohgo Rivers was dead. Podrick pushed him from the blade to the ground, then stood there to catch his breath. He was caked from head to toe in blood and death. He did not have the luxury of waiting long—a group of wights had managed to break through to the interior of the castle. There was only one thing going through Podrick’s mind: **the crypts! Sansa!** _

_Tohgo lay dead at his feet. That wight was no longer his issue. Sansa was._

_Stepping clear of the body, Podrick rushed headlong into the castle, heedless of his own safety. He was tired, and his body was sore, but he could not let_ them _win._

_Once inside, he managed to tiptoe around passageways and intermittently hide himself in shadowy corners in order to evade the wights. However, at some point, he was discovered, and was forced to fight his way through the crowd of dead._

_There was screaming. It was coming from the crypts! Podrick’s heart stiffened in his chest. The wights had broken through the door._

_Before he could rush towards the crypts, he found himself surrounded by even more of the wights. The hold on his sword tightened. He was prepared to meet them head-on. He began fighting wight after wight—lobbing the head off one, slashing the chest of another… but soon enough, the sheer number in the onslaught was overwhelming._

_One of the wights jumped forwards and caught him in the neck, another bite to his chest, and a third clawed at him just above his hip bone. Flesh and bone screamed as if on fire. Podrick pushed them off of him, gritting his teeth through the wave of pain. His swore tore through each of them like butter, cutting a bloody swath through the hallway, a renewed determination when heard the same screaming as before. He stumbled only once but he did not allow his pain to slow him down._

_Many more wights found their way into the castle interior. The only thing that he worried about now was losing his life before he could reach the crypts. If this is how he was to meet his end, he would go down fighting. He only wished he could have seen her once more._

_And then--_

_The wights started falling, setting off a chain reaction throughout the interior, and again within the courtyard, and all over the castle walls._

_Sansa…_

_Podrick hurried towards the crypts. The door was bolted shut but he kept pushing and pounding and kicking until he was able to get it open. Inside were dozens of bodies—of wights and some unfortunate women—but there was also Tyrion… and Sansa… and he had never been so happy to see someone before!_

____________

Trudging himself from bed, a sheet wrapped around his hips, Podrick walked over to a desk, plopped himself down in a chair, reached for a free scroll of parchment, and a quill, then started to put into writing what had taken him three years to say…

But, where to start?

~.~.~.~.~

Everyone else had gone off to the docks for send-offs; Podrick, however, did not. He came up with some reasonable justification for his absence and disappeared off to the stables instead.

There was Gendry, of course—he’d come to know the Baratheon as a genuine, trustworthy friend. Podrick sat proudly when his friend was legitimized by the queen; a bastard no longer.

Bronn was someone Podrick had known for years but never connected with. The occasional moment here and there where they would talk, but nothing else. Though it had been the sellsword who sent him off with Tyrion’s axe from Blackwater Bay, and then later on when he displayed a level of brotherly affection towards the former squire. The pair joined each other for a drink during the meeting at the dragon pit between Cersei and Daenerys.

Podrick chose to not be there not because of Bronn or Gendry or other nobles he didn’t know by name and just title alone but due another, a certain red-headed Queen; Somehow he thought managing horses was easier than saying goodbye.

Several weeks following the Battle of King’s Landing, after which Cersei and her armies were defeated, Podrick traveled with Brienne and other nobles there though remained waiting outside the gates due to his squire status and thus was not present when Jon’s legitimacy as a Targaryen was revealed to all and it was decided, by Daenerys herself, that she would _break the wheel_ and rule as a dyad, a pair.

Only a short time afterward had been approached about joining the Royal Guard. He accepted, sure, but in doing so… knew what it was he was giving up. He would have returned to Winterfell with Sansa—she’d need only ask of him—but, Brienne needed him more.

It was heartbreaking… but necessary.

___ ___________

_Whenever Podrick couldn’t sleep – which was often most times these days – then he would seek some relaxation elsewhere, at least for a moment so he could distract himself from whatever it was that was keeping him from a restful night’s sleep._

_As a squire for Lord Tyrion, Podrick had been granted certain privileges—access to a library of books, food at his table, a glass of wine here and there…especially when the Lannister refused to drink alone._

_He still pandered to the sporadic book here and there, sometimes two or three, but where he really found his solace was on the back of a horse in an opened field. This wasn’t a life-time passion of his, not even close—Podrick didn’t even know how to ride properly until shown by Brienne, and grateful he was having her teach him, too—but these days, especially now, he found engage more and more._

_Everyone had been sleeping when he slipped out of the castle. He was quick about slipping off to the stables, saddling a horse, and trotting out before anyone could wake and discover he’d gone._

_He thought he was alone. He was wrong. Podrick was surprised when he stumbled across her though he was sure it was the snow crunching beneath the horse’s hooves that gave him away. She was startled by the sound, and equally surprised to see him out. Further investigation revealed a similar if not same reasoning as to why she was out here, alone, without any evidence she was being well looked after. Podrick felt it was his duty to make sure there were no strange folk about._

_They prattled on for hours until at long last, they grew weary and turned their horses around, bound back for Winterfell._

_Podrick jumped down from his stead first before he assisted Sansa to her feet. He was able to get a good glimpse at her once standing in front of the other. She really did have the most astonishing blue eyes. He very much would have liked to kiss her then but be it nerves, guilt, or something else, he stayed off. They parted from each other in the wee hours of that morning, bidding each other a good night._

_The whole time he was watching her leave, he kept thinking how much he would have liked to kiss her._

____________

Using a hoof pick, Podrick started at the heel of the foot then worked his way towards the toe, carefully removing rocks, dirt, and debris that had collected there. Once all four hooves were cleared, he tossed the hoof pick aside and crabbed a curry comb. He was vigorous in his movements, brushing small circular motions over the horse’s muscles, being mindful of bony areas such as the face, spine, and legs. He worked his way from the neck of the gelding to the barrel and all the way to the rump.

Once finished, Podrick grabbed himself another brush, a harder one, which was a hard-bristled brush used to remove dirt or hair brought out by the curry comb. He brushed in short, straight, flicking motions, allowing each of the bristles to get all the way through the coat.

Podrick cleaned up with a soft brush, getting around the face—the eyes, the ears, and the muzzle—removing any remaining surface dust and hair.

Using a wide-bristled mane comb, he brushed out any and all tangles caught up in the mane and the tail.

Once he finished cleaning up the mare, Podrick snatched up an apple from a nearby container then carefully eyed the saddles. He hadn’t been planning to ride but now seemed as a good of a time as any. Maybe it was just what he needed to get his mind off of things.

He seemed to have already made up his mind. Podrick snatched a saddle then returned to the mare, a beautiful creature of painted colors—yellow, beige, and white. Once the mare had been saddled up, Podrick jumped on and led her out; away they flew from the stables, leaving behind his bottled up agony he was nowhere near prepared to face head-on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the chapter being so short. I honestly meant for it to be longer but I ultimately felt that with the direction it ended up going, what I wanted to include would probably seem off. I am going on vacation with the family tomorrow so I won't be able to get going on the new chapter until likely next week since I won't be bringing my laptop with me.
> 
> The next few chapters will very likely deal with Podrick and Sansa as separate entities though I haven't decided just how many chapters I will have for each of them.
> 
> I hope y'all like this update :) Please leave kinds words ^_^


	8. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, it inflames the great.”_  
>  ― Roger de Bussy-Rabutin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I normally would not have waited this long to upload a new chapter so I apologize I kept y'all waiting. Please, please, PLEASE, enjoy this chapter :)

The Kingsroad is the longest and grandest highway in the Seven Kingdoms, running from Castle Black through all of Westeros, passing by King’s Landing, and Winterfell along the way; the entirely of the Kingsroad extends for over two thousand miles. The road begins in the Stormlands and runs northwest by Bronzegate and through the kingswood to the Blackwater Rush, opposite the River Gate of King’s Landing in the crownlands. At the capital, the Kingsroad is met by the Goldroad coming from the Westerlands and the roseroad from the Reach. It continues on for several miles yet, going north through the capital’s Dragon Gate and passing east of Gods Eye and by Harrenhal in the Riverlands. Once past Moat Cailin, the Kingsroad then travels further north through the Barrowlands, the southeastern Wolfswood, and a tributary of the White Knife to Winterfell, the ancestral castle and seat of power for House Stark, the capital of the northern countries.

Some of buildings were ancient and broken-down, some in good repair. The castle itself had been gradually expanded over many centuries, giving it a less systematized appearance than other large castle which had been planned out all at once. Within the walls, Winterfell was comprised of dozens of courtyards and less significant open spaces. The inner ward was a much older space where much of the archery practice took place (Robb and Jon would often practice there; sometimes Bran as well). The inner castle contained the Great Keep and Great Hall and each of the towers and halls had many diamond-shaped window panes.

The Great Keep was the innermost part of the castle and stronghold of the entire complex, connected to an armory by a covered bridge. The entire yard could be seen from a window on the covered bridge. The Great Hall was used for receiving guests as well as serving as a dining hall for the household, including the Lord himself. Eight long rows of trestle tables could fit within the walls, four to each side of the central aisle, and could easily accommodate about five hundred people. The walls themselves were covered with banners.

The oldest surviving part was the First Keep, an older part of the castle no longer in use. Around it was the lichyard where loyal servants of the Kings of Winterfell had been buried beneath headstones. The broken tower, also known as the Burned Tower, once stood as the tallest watchtower in Winterfell. A lightning strike had set it aflame, collapsing the top third inward. It’s been over one hundred forty years, but no one had bothered to rebuild it. Now crows have made the broken tower their home.

The crypts underneath the castle were huge; larger than the entire compound above ground, long and narrow with pillars moving two by two along the length of it. The most ancient of tombs were located on the lower level, while the more current of those are located towards the surface. Many of these lower levels were half-collapsed and virtually unexplored; these facts made it fairly easy to hide down there for weeks or even months at a time, getting lost in a never-ending spiral of darkness and stone. Access to the crypts was granted by a twisting stone staircase and a huge ironwood door.

The Bell Tower was connected to the rookery by a bridge, the maester’s turret below the rookery. The Library Tower housed Winterfell’s library; a stonework staircase spiraled along the exterior. A gatehouse made of two huge crenelated bulwarks flank the arched gate. There was a narrow tunnel within the inner walls that stretched halfway around the castle, allowing for travel between gates without delay. The Hunter’s Gate was located closer to the kennels and the kitchens. The East Gate led to the Kingsroad. The Battlements Gate was a small arched postern within the inner wall.

The castle itself had been constructed over natural hot springs, the scorching waters tearing all the way through the stone walls and chambers, functioning as insulation for driving out a majority of the chill. The walls themselves were made of granite and the Great Keep also contained the bedchambers of House Stark, as well as the solar for the Lord of Winterfell. When Jon and Sansa and the armies of both Stark and Arryn took back the castle from Ramsey Bolton, Jon had the Lord’s chambers prepared for her, though she may have seemed initially hesitant to the idea; she insisted _he_ take them, but he reminded her that it was because of her that they were even standing in Winterfell to begin with.

The royal entourage traveled south from Winterfell to King’s Landing, spending little under a month’s worth of travel on the road. They returned the same way, stopping once at the Crossroads Inn for rest. After leaving the Inn, it took very little time to reach Winterfell. There had been a fire roaring in the hearth, and a servant fetching another log to feed the flames, ensuring the chambers would be warm enough once the queen arrived. Sansa was grateful to once again be looking at a familiar sight. Even so, there was something she was lacking. A burden of sorts leaning on her heart she just couldn’t unsettle. Striving to pay no heed to that feeling, she quickly debarked the carriage and meandered inside, anxious to be getting unpacked, yet not so much after realizing what came next; the moving on part. The knowledge of knowing what was always behind her… and what she dreaded being ahead of her.

Though the warmth of her chambers was inviting enough, Sansa knew she was too distracted to notice. She struggled to concentrate on other matters while her personal effects were unpacked. She decided positioning herself in front of the fire, arms crossed over her chest, was sufficient enough. However; her eyes remained indistinct. Maybe for just today, she could get by without facing reality and just maybe, she would feel good about it for that short amount of time. But even if she ignored it for today, there was always tomorrow, and the day after. Sansa couldn’t run from it. Not forever. Despite her body wanting her to. Despite that voice buried in her mind, the one screaming at her about responsibilities she knew had befallen her.

She felt ever so vaguely warm and hazy, knowing this feeling wasn’t because of the comforting temperature of her bedchambers. Sighing gently, Sansa stepped forward to toss another log onto the fire. This would normally have been the job of one of her maids, but she was here, they were busy, and she kept telling herself such a menial task helped with her distraction. She could use lots and lots of distraction—particularly in the coming days, and weeks, and even years. Staring intently at the flames in the hearth wasn’t doing anything. In spite of all she kept striving to shake from her mind, Sansa could not disregard that gnawing anguish she had carried with her since leaving behind King’s Landing nearly a month ago.

Her prolonged staring into the flames had gotten her thinking too much. She reached into her bodice, retrieving the folded letter that had been tucked away…but she hadn’t read it, again; once was enough, she thought. More than enough for the point to get across. She stared at it, knowing she had committed the words to memory. _His_ words. They may have been enough for Podrick, but Sansa didn’t feel like they were enough for her. They would have to be. They were all she had of him now. Their time together, however brief yet beautiful, would just be a distant memory she’d one day look back on and smile.

Exhaling softly, Sansa once again looked at the flames and for a brief moment, she contemplated tossing the letter in. Letting it burn there. Letting the roaring fire eat away at the parchment until there was nothing left but black embers. She was so close. So tempted. But— _no_ , she thought at the last moment. Instead of feeding the letter to the demanding flames, Sansa tossed on another log onto the fire and she bade her handmaidens to draw her a bath; _hot, as hot as human flesh could withstand_ , she demanded.

Sansa had disrobed of her garments, rejecting assistance from the handmaiden who offered; she snapped, being a bit too forceful in her voice—something she would late apologize for. The clothing she wore seemed much heavier than before. She imagined it had been _Podrick_ removing them—visualizing his soothing touch, how his fingers would dance across her shoulders, making her flesh prickle with goosebumps and her blood sing. She imagined how delicately he kissed her when he was undressing her, delivering praise to each and every spec of skin he exposed, doing all kinds of things to her she never envisaged before.

For just a moment, she allowed herself to get lost in the thought. Shutting her eyes up tight, she could see him standing there, that gorgeous smile ebbed on his mouth, the sparkle in his eyes. And if she focused closely, just enough, she could still imagine how smooth his voice sounded when he spoke. Just this image was all she had of him—so she should savor it. But Sansa was getting herself _too_ lost in her thoughts. She failed to notice the letter that had tumbled to the floor when her robes pooled at her feet. She didn’t notice until one of her handmaidens had retrieved it.

The girl was young, younger than Sansa was, perhaps not quite eight and ten, but she was a bubbly lass with bright yellow hair and a laughing smile. Curiosity was in her nature… so she saw no harm in looking at it for a while.

Sansa remained unaware of Podrick’s letter falling into the hands of her youngest handmaiden until the young woman had squealed; _It is the seal of the Lord Commander!_ She explained, prompting Sansa’s eyes to snap open and a very audible intake of breath to fall from her lips. She snatched it from the younger woman’s hand, chiding her in privacy and decorum. The handmaiden tried apologizing, but it just came sputtering out and the words she was trying to say were not making any sense.

She dismissed the young woman, and the rest of them as well. They curtsied and left, the younger of them all dragging her feet as they all waltzed out the door. Sansa sighed deeply. She gawked at the letter with the broken seal for just a moment… then shut it within a desk drawer.

~.~.~.~.~

She carried on with normality as much as she could for days, doing everything and anything to distance her mind from thinking about _him_ …

…but in doing so came the days of restlessness.

The fight night, Sansa lay awake just staring at the ceiling, unable to get even a few moments of rest even when trying to fidget about in an attempt to find a slightly more comfortable sleeping position. The second night, she somehow managed to get a few hours here and there, but there she would lay awake for another hour and couldn’t get herself back to sleep. The third night was just as bad as the first.

The fourth night is when it finally dawned on her: she was definitely not getting over this. No matter how hard she struggled, no matter how long she gaped at the unoccupied space beside her, this desolation in her heart would never abate.

And she withdrew… from everyone.

Sure, Sansa did her duty to the best of her station as queen but when she didn’t have to feel the overwhelming burden of responsibilities, she wanted to get away. No one knew why. No one bothered to ask. And she could always feel the heavy weight of their eyes upon her whenever she excused herself back to her solar, usually escorted by her handmaidens. Not this time.

Following a private meal away from all others, Sansa excused herself to be alone for the what was left of the evening. She was too pleased when that door closed behind her.

Sansa considered her bed for the umpteenth time that day. She knew it was likely she would have a sleepless night again but the it was the thought of curling up under those warm covers that really ignited her interest. None of her men or handmaidens or even her people had noticed how sluggish she had been—to them, Sansa was a good pretender. All this worrying was making herself sick.

The longer she stood staring at the seating area in front of the fire, and the carafe of ice cold water sitting there in the middle of a small table, the more Sansa was thinking she should just relax and give herself a break from all this unnecessary stress she was putting herself under.

Also, there was the matter of this nauseating feeling she chalked up the severe lack of sleep.

The nausea was discomforting. This heavy tightness that just seemed to resonate somewhere in her stomach and slowly crawl up her chest. Sansa poured herself a cup of cold ice water then proceeded to open the window just a bit until her face was assaulted by the wintry air. It was just enough until the feeling of nausea subsided a little, then she closed up the window.

That night when she laid down, she twisted up to one of her larger pillows, positioning her body at a peculiar incline that wasn’t at all how she would normally sleep.

The absence of his body neck to her, just a mound of pillows instead, only reminded her that she wouldn’t be waking up to him for the rest of her days. He remained in King’s Landing living his life and here she was in Winterfell moving on with her own.

Eventually, perhaps.

Sansa turned to lay on her back as she hoped to abate the nausea sloshing in her belly. The pillow she had been hugging close to her had fallen from the bed. As she stared up at the ceiling, she exhaled very slowly. This wasn’t helping. As it was with so many nights before, she knew she wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight.

___ ___________

_Sansa woke early that morning, the morning of her departure; she did not want to wake, knowing what it meant, but knew she had to._

_Her arms and legs lengthened out much like a cat coming from a deep sleep._

_As her eyes opened, becoming accustomed to the morning’s first light streaming in through the opaque curtains hanging down the window, Sansa realized the left side of the rather large bed had been empty. In a brief moment of panic, she shot up, only to see that Podrick had woken before her and not left the room as she initially thought he would do but stood by that same opened window. Beside him was an average-sized mahogany desk._

_Tossing the covers from her body, she planted her feet firmly on floor and sauntered over to where he stood. He undoubtedly perceived she was coming up from behind him for he cheerfully warmed when her arms bordered his waist._

_Sansa nuzzled her nose against him, muttering into his shoulder; “Good morning...”_

_“Mmmm, yes… “ His hand clasped over hers. Of course he wanted to keep focus on her, but he couldn’t, not clearly, not when he was already distracted knowing she was leaving. Podrick lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed it, then slowly turned his body, lifting her arm over his head until it hugged him around his waist once again, yet he faced her this time. “…it is a good morning indeed.”_

_His smile could warm the cold of Winterfell._

____________

Exasperated, Sansa threw the covers off of her and crawled from bed.

She crossed to where her desk sat, reached into one of the drawers, and retrieved the letter Podrick had written to her, the one he made her swear not to open until she had gone, _that_ one.

Sansa gawked at it for some time, remembering how it was the day she left King’s Landing.

___ ___________

_Her lips brushed his own, softly, delicately, like the gentle hum of a whisper, just long enough for her to inhale the scent of him, something she knew would always – and had always – remained close to her._

_But something had broken inside her._

_When their lips stopped touching, Podrick pressed a last one to the tip of her nose. She had moved into his body for just a second, closing her eyes as she did so. He realized something was troubling her. When he pulled his head back, his mouth had adopted a sad frown. With a finger just under her chin, Podrick lifted her head._

_And he asked, though he had some certainty, “What troubles you, my lady?”_

_“Part of me does not want to leave,” her voice was distressing, and just hearing herself saying it was just making the inevitable worse. “In a few short hours, I will be riding north for home, leaving behind King’s Landing… and you… and it breaks my heart… “_

_“I know,” he admitted, tearfully, “mine too.”_

_Podrick reached for something on the desk. Sansa couldn’t tell what it was. But when he had it, he grasped her hand and placed it there in her palm._

_When she looked down, she saw what he had given her._

_And then he said, “Wait until you have left before you read it…”_

_She understood._

_“You will be there to see me off won’t you?”_

_“I will.”_

____________

But he wasn’t there as he promised.

The longer Sansa gawked at the letter, the more she was bothered by it. Haunted by it. She didn’t know if she should be enraged or disappointed. Maybe a bit of both. She had been expecting him to be there at the docks when she left and she probably didn’t understand it then – she might not even understand it now, honestly – but Podrick not being there was likely easier than if he was there.

But, if they were supposed to be moving on, she had to start somewhere.

Exhaling, slowly, with hesitation rising in her chest, Sansa tore the letter in half and fed it to the flames. She watched as the fire burned away at the two halves of parchment until there was nothing left.

Nothing left at all.


	9. Seat of Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“When you loved someone and had to let them go, there will always be that small part of yourself that whispers, "What was it that you wanted and why didn't you fight for it?”_  
>  ― Shannon L. Alder

House Stark has always been one of the Great Houses of Westeros, and the royal house of the Northern Kingdom, ruling over the vast region of the North for thousands of years, however; this rule in the North seemingly came to an abrupt end following the events of the Red Wedding, when House Stark was betrayed by both House Frey and House Bolton—after forming an alliance with House Stark. The Boltons were given lordship over Winterfell as a reward for their role in the betrayal of Robb Stark and his family and Tywin Lannister later appoints Roose Bolton the new Warden in the North as well as the Lord of Winterfell.

The Boltons had become a Great House, the ensuing murder of Tywin Lannister at the hands of his own son had left their House’s security in a dismal state, since this meant they no longer processed enough men to hold the North should bannermen from House Stark ever rise up against them. In order to strengthen their position, Roose conspired with Petyr Baelish for Sansa Stark to be married off to his son, Ramsay. She was reluctant to marry into a family that betrayed her own, but she was assured it would be optimum change for revenge. However, their hold was put in jeopardy when Sansa absconded Winterfell with Theon Greyjoy. They fled, with Bolton forces in hot pursuit.

Soon after her reunion with Jon at Castle Black, Sansa had wished to reclaim Winterfell back for House Stark. Jon, however, did not wish to; _I am tired of fighting. I have done nothing but fight since the day I left home… and my own men killed me for it._ Though she first appeared to accept his choice, Sansa also decided she would take back their home with or without his help. Later, during a war meeting, the pair discussed which loyal house they could still rely on to support them; Houses Karstarks and House Umber were not considered—they already sided with House Bolton. Jon decided on gathering the two dozen houses still loyal to House Stark; Sansa alluded to House Tully, fabricating about how she acquired that knowledge.

___ ___________

_…Sansa had received a letter from Baelish, asking to meet. Escorted by her sworn sword Brienne, she arrived in a ruined house in Mole’s Town. Even though she angrily spit out details of her wedding night—how Ramsey raped her, and every night since—he had shifted the subject matter away from that, speaking pertaining to the Knights of the Vale rallied to her cause, and of the Blackfish—her great-uncle, Brynden—reclaiming Riverrun from the Frays. Although she contemplated this coalition, Sansa repudiated any support from Baelish…_

_…much later, before her trek to Riverrun to prevent the Boltons from the possibility of accepting any ravens sent there, Brienne asked Sansa why she lied to Jon about her meeting with Baelish…_

____________

In the end, Jon and Sansa were only able to recruit a few of the Northern houses. He wanted to strike immediately, before Ramsey could have the time to gather more men, but Sansa disagreed. She wanted to try to persuade Lord Cerwyn. When Jon refused to change his mind, she resorted to writing a letter to an unknown party for reinforcements.

She wasn’t present when the battle had begun but as it neared its end, and Jon’s forces seemingly defeated, a far off distant horn signaled: Baelish had come—the mysterious party to whom Sansa had pleaded ger case to--along with Sansa, herself…and arriving with them were the Knights of the Vale, whose forces drove back to advancing Bolton army.

After Ramsey’s defeat—to the pleasure and satisfaction of his wife, who fed him to his own dogs whilst bearing a smile as she walked away from the kennels—Winterfell was once again firmly under Stark control. The remaining Northern lords gathered in the Great Hall to discuss their new situation they now found themselves in. Should they return home before winter hit? Jon warned them the war wasn’t over; there’s still more to come. And Lyanna…she chastised the Northmen for refusing House Stark’s call. Bastard or no, Ned Stark’s blood inundated Jon’s veins. He was proclaimed “King in the North” by Lyanna Mormont, and the others soon followed, chanting the same thing over and over: _The King in the North, the King in the North, the King in the North…_

Sansa was smiling… until she glanced at Baelish; the unimpressed and knowing look had sent chills running down her spine.

After he received a letter from Cersei demanding he bend the knee, Sansa implored him not to underestimate her. She was ruthless and cunning and would do anything within her power to see someone dead if she wished it to be so. Sansa recommended dealing with her before confronting the Night King, adding that she had learned a lot from the woman during her time in King’s Landing.

She also questioned a letter sent by Tyrion which asked Jon to come to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys Targaryen. She had the right to worry; she was concerned this would just be a plan to lure him into a trap. Though Sansa knew Tyrion was unlike the other Lannisters, she still affirmed that leaving for Dragonstone could put him in danger. Supposedly all Daenerys wanted was to form an alliance against Cersei and had very little issue detailing the military forces at her disposal. Sansa tried to convince him to remain at Winterfell, send an emissary instead, but he protested, claiming they had to meet in person, monarch-to-monarch. He took her suspicions into consideration as it was a risk he was willing to take…even if others didn’t agree with his plan.

Sansa was given control while he was gone, a position that she accepted. She never once doubted her ability to lead, not by this point anyway.

At some interval later on, she oversaw a meeting amongst the Northern lords. They argued that since the King in the North should remain in the North, Sansa should be the one to take power. However, she countered, insisting Jon was their true ruler and knew very well what he was doing. She had put her faith in him, even though she didn’t much trust this Targaryen queen she’d never met; understandably, she worried about Jon.

When the warring armies finally culminated in the heat of battle, the idea of staying with her people just wasn’t in the realm of possibilities. Her place was not on the ramparts as their doom marched forwards. She protested, she pleaded, but in the end, she relented.

Tyrion was restless but Sansa reminded him they were all there for a reason; they wouldn’t be able to help, not the way they should, so there was nothing for them to do but wait – it was the most heroic thing they could be doing at that moment. She acknowledged he was the _best of them_ , a compliment Tyrion hadn’t taken lightly. After the dead breached the castle walls and found their way into the crypts – previously emptied of dead bodies so the Night King’s spell could not reanimate the dead – the living had scrambled for cover. 

The pair looked desperately at each other before Sansa pulled out a dragonglass dagger. Tyrion was tearful when he saw it, then produced his own. An unspoken moment of understanding passed between them.

Beyond that casket was almost certain death.

___ ___________

_There she stood atop the ramparts, gazing across the interior courtyard. Having just returned from the war council in which strategies had been decided upon, Sansa needed a minute to herself. She could have used much longer than a minute, but she didn’t have the time; none of them did. Sansa was a bit terrified—if she were to be completely honest. A lot of them would be dead by morning. People she cared about. People she loved. Maybe after the dead had finished in Winterfell, they would match forwards to King’s Landing and obliterate Cersei and her army, and everyone who ever lived there._

_Say they did live. Say they defeated the army of dead. What next? Well, Sansa supposed it was onto the next phase. Their next move against King’s Landing…and Cersei. The thought worried her slightly more than the oncoming army of dead. She knew Cersei. Knew what she was capable of. Cersei was ruthless, willful, cold, and ambitious. She was also cunning in the sense that she would willing betray anyone who trusted her and not give a fig about it. Her behavior is volatile, completely capable of shifting between true affection—if there ever was such a thing—and pure loathing over the smallest of trifles._

_Sansa had every right to worry about their future. And she wanted more than anything to put a part of that war council meeting. But, first things first: surviving the night—then they would worry about Cersei. She was shaking the more she thought about it… though it was quite cold out and she had been standing out there for some time now._

_As luck would have it, she had been followed._

_A thick, black wolf pelt was draped across her shoulders; she instinctively tugged it tighter over her chest. Then she turned to see…_

_…Podrick Payne, smiling at her. She had only briefly returned his smile, nodding her thanks at the furs he brought her to keep warm, then returned to gazing across the courtyard._

_Podrick dropped his smile and took a step to stand beside her. His attention then shifted to where Sansa had been looking, and he observed the men for several moments. The pair lingered in ongoing silence. Not that he really minded much; her company was enough, and just being able to stand next to her was probably more than he could hope for._

_Sansa didn’t look at him. Tried not to. Tried to keep her attention on the activity below her. Her mind was wandering. She couldn’t help but to imagine the countless bodies. Even if they had defeated the army of the dead, there would still be bodies. Lots of them. Most of them would be her men. People who had fought and bled for House Stark for countless years._

_But Podrick did look._

_In his hand was a dagger made of dragonglass given to him by the blacksmith Gendry… and now he was giving it to Sansa; “I want you to take this,” he said, his voice was soft and calming; in a sea of uncertainty, his voice was better than anything else._

_Sansa stared at it, and then; “You will need this more than I will…” Once he had the dagger in her hand, she was looking at him._

_P_ _odrick folded her fingers inward, so they covered the dagger hilt. His only response was a sad smile. He prayed she'd never have to use it but felt better if she was prepared to. "Take it," he said, though his voice sounded sad, maybe even scared, "I have my sword. I want to feel better knowing you are protected."_

___ ___________

Following the skirmish against the White Walkers, Sansa attended a war council in preparation to march against Cersei. She advised the dragon queen to give the armies time to rest before engaging in more conflict. This caused a tense moment with Daenerys, who was insistent upon attacking Cersei as quickly as possible. Jon eventually managed to make her see reason; _Rhaegal had been badly wounded, and many of the men need to recover their strength_ , is what he explained. She conceded in the end and acceded to a succinct period of respite.

Several weeks following the Battle of King’s Landing, Sansa received word of their victory. Though she would have liked being present at Cersei’s execution, there was still that part of her that delighted to read the words _…Cersei Lannister was found dead in the Red Keep…_ on the scroll of paper. Sansa traveled to King’s Landing for the official coronation—Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men… and sitting beside her on that throne would be Jon I Snow; he neglected to be called by his _true_ name; Jon is the name he grew up with and Jon would be the name he would carry with him for the rest of his life.

She remained there for only a short while before saying her farewells; parting from Lady—well, _Ser_ , now—Brienne proved to be much more difficult than she imagined, but Sansa was thrilled by the prospect that her former sworn sword would be serving in the Kingsguard as the Lord Commander. After saying her goodbyes to the rest of her siblings, she returned home to Winterfell where she was crowned Queen in the North.

The past three years had been anything but ordinary for her. The majority of her first year was spent restoring the damage to the castle. Then there was the issue of what to do with the land ownership of extinct houses; from destruction brought worth from the White Walkers or from their own design. If bastards from these houses could be found, they were legitimized and given a lordship. If not, the bannermen loyal to her and her family had been awarded these lands that would have otherwise sat abandoned. Last she heard from Storm’s End, Lord Gendry had done the same, or at least gave them a position within his household.

Correspondence with King’s Landing had not always been constant, even before her recent visit, but she at least tried to send the occasional raven. On days like these, Sansa would be waiting in her solar if there was nothing for her to attend to; she enjoyed her leisure time, on the rare occasions she managed it. She started reading books again, of the kind she used to enjoy in her youth. It felt good. It felt right.

A raven arrived late one evening bearing the seal of the Lord Commander. Her heart skipped a tender beat when she believed it might be from Podrick. She was eager to hear from him.

But it wasn’t.

~.~.~.~.~

_Queen Sansa,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. Ser Jaime and I write to you jointly, although I understand he is not in the best of favors with you. He wishes to be able to make amends for any and all wrongdoings from the past so that we might be able to look past all that into our future, which is so much brighter now with Queen Daenerys sitting on the Iron Throne. King’s Landing and its people have prospered. There is hardly a soul life who remembers what times were like under Cersei’s rule. It has taken Ser Jaime some time, and I believe his heart is still weakened from her loss, but he has recovered more than I imagined. I am not completely devoid of sensitivity and understand his need to mourn, even if he does so privately. I respect him enough to give him that much, though he tells me he will be fine in due time._

_We are to travel to Tarth within the month; my father, the Evenstar, is in poor health. He wishes to see me and his Goodson before his passing. In truth, I am terrified. As my father is the only parent I have ever known, I do not know how I will be able to deal with this. I am grateful, then, that I have my husband—writing that seems bizarre, and Ser Jaime gets in a good chuckle at my expense; I will get used to the idea, he says—who is giving me words of encouragement for what is to come. His mother left this world at a young age, something both of us have in common since I was only six when my mother died in the birthing bed._

_He has broached the subject of children. While I understand his desire to have a child of his own, the very thought of baring a babe also scares me. I do not want to leave him, or our child, without a mother. I also do not know if I see myself as a mother. I just know that it would fill his heart tremendously if we were to have a babe. This isn’t a subject I take lightly; he understands that. Though we have been lovers for many years, and married for only two moons, Ser Jaime has allowed me as much time as I need to come to terms with the idea. I know in my heart that it would make him happy. I just… I don’t know if I would be fit to be a mother._

_There has been something of a cloud hanging over my Kingsguard since your departure. While I admire this newfound dedication to his duties, Podrick’s behavior lately has me concerned. Since taking command of the Kingsguard, I’ve tried making a habit to get myself familiar with each of the knights under me. He seems far less interested in sharing a drink at the end of the day then he used to be. If I try to raise the subject, he just shuts down almost entirely and changes the topic. I don’t know the nature in which you both decided to leave things, but I believe it would do him some good to hear from you._

_I think of you and hope things in the North are as you want them to be. I look forward to our continued correspondence._

_Your friend,_

_Ser Brienne, Lord Commander_

__________

Her stomach roiled; probably something she ate.

Sansa poured herself a glass of cold water from the water jug her maids replenished every day. A few sips abetted her queasiness.

She read the letter again and again, thinking about what form of reply to give. When she thought of one, she sat herself down at her desk and grabbed a quill.

__________

_Ser Brienne,_

_I have my health. Gods be good. You are kind to think of me. You had always had my best interest at heart, even if I first scorned your good nature. One day, you must forgive me for ever doubting you._

_As you know, Ser Jaime has not been my favorite of people. There was a time where I thought his heinous crimes to be unforgivable. Imagine my surprise when he showed himself at my gates, claiming to be here to join us in the fight against the army of the dead. I must admit that I didn’t take him at his word…. But then I listened to you, and how you defended him, and I admired you for it. I knew then that his word must be true—because you trusted him, and I trust you implicitly. In time, I believe I can accept him as you have. Seeing you happy makes me happy and I know Ser Jaime is the reason for that._

_I am sorry to hear of your father’s ailing health. I know of Lord Selwyn though I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him in person. I’m sure he will delight in seeing you again._

_As for children, I never really gave it much thought myself. I suppose I did at one point in my life. Your fears of having children are justifiable. When my mother was pregnant with my brothers and Arya, she and my father always had that thought in their minds. What would happen if she were to pass in the birthing bed? I imagine my father was always on edge about things like that, even during her first and her second pregnancies. I can understand being terrified at the thought but as you have been so kind and loving to myself and Arya, I personally believe you will make a fantastic mother_ _…_

__________

Sansa paused.

When she read over what Brienne had written about Podrick, she started feeling queasy again. Her stomach had a way of doing that lately. She sipped from her water glass and exhaled, slowly. Again, that uneasiness that settled in her belly seemed to dissipate for the time being.

Knowing that Podrick hadn’t been quite himself lately had saddened her and brought shame to her heart. She felt responsible—guilty, even.

Sansa opened one of her desk drawers. She pulled out an object wrapped tight in a beige cloth. When she unwove it, the glimmer from the glass blade reflected from the fire in the hearth. This was _that_ dagger. The very same one Podrick had given her on the eve of battle against the dead. She wanted to return it to him then but with all the confusion, she supposed she had simply forgotten about it. Had she not read this letter, it was feasible she would have kept going on forgetting about it.

Stiflingly a tear, Sansa re-wrapped the dagger and set it down atop the desk.

__________

 _…_ _My heart is aching knowing that Podrick is not acting as the person we both know him to be. I suppose that… him acting so withdrawn is partially my doing. I hold myself to blame. We did not have the easiest of times saying our farewells to each other._

_The nature of my departure has continued to distress me._

_Things are proceeding as well as can be, though it does feel empty sometimes not having you at my side. I am glad to hear you are doing well in King’s Landing. I feel much better knowing you are there protecting my cousin as you have once done the same for me._

_Always,_

_Sansa, Queen in the North_

__________

Sansa replaced the quill, gave the ink a few minutes to dry, then folded the parchment, stamping it with the Winterfell seal. In the morning, she would give it to one of her maids, along with the dagger wrapped up in beige cloth. She had tied it up with a red ribbon she found somewhere in her desk drawer.

Once she had stripped off the heavy layers of clothing, she quietly slipped into bed. But she did not sleep. She thought about Brienne’s letter and the words she wrote about Podrick. Her heart seized up knowing the rough time he was going through. She was not doing any better. In fact, this façade she put on was just that—a show. Something for the northern lords and ladies to see so they wouldn’t have to question their queen’s sanity. She was anything but. Her mind was a tortured mess of emotions.

Sansa was breaking.

She turned on her side, facing towards the large window. She knew she had to breathe, lest she completely lose herself to this turmoil she put herself in. If she had never met Podrick, she never would have fallen in love with him. And if she had never fallen in love with him, she never—

Well, some things were too far gone to take back.


	10. The Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We only know a tiny proportion about the complexity of the natural world. Wherever you look, there are still things we don’t know about and don’t understand. There are always new things to find out if you go looking for them.”_  
>  ― David Attenborough

Westeros was divided into Seven Kingdoms, with hundreds of noble houses—various in size—and descended through nine Great Houses. These Great Houses were the most powerful of the noble houses. With exception of House Stark who ruled over an independent kingdom, these houses were answerable only to the King on the Iron Throne.

Each of those houses had a number of vassal houses—also referred to as minor houses. While some of these vassal houses were powerful enough to field armies and control larger regions, the smallest of these houses were often disadvantaged landowners with very few men to their name, expanding down the line to humble farmers and landed knights.

Prior to the Targaryen Conquest, each of these Seven Kingdoms had been ruled independently. During the Conquest, may of these families were either destroyed, replaced, or defeated. Those who were defeated had in turn been made to swear fealty to Aegon Targaryen, the ruling monarch at the time. Houses such as Gardeners, Hoares, and Durrandons were slain and replaced—by the Greyjoys, and Baratheons, respectfully. Houses Lannister, Arryn, and Stark had surrendered peacefully and thus were able to retain their landownership. The Tullys had been raised up to rule over the Riverlands, a region once under Ironborn occupation.

Robert’s Rebellion—also known as the War of the Usurper, the last great civil war—which began in 280 AC had ended in exile for the last remaining Targaryens and saw House Baratheon replacing them as the new royal house of Westeros, effecting creating a cadet branch of their house.

The War of Five Kings, a major civil war in the Seven Kingdoms, which began in 298 AC and eventually saw its end in 304 AC, as had Daenerys Targaryen’s war for the Iron Throne beginning in 304 AC and ending in 305 AC, have seen changes with the Great Houses.

House Baratheon was no longer the royal house, and at least two branches were now extinct: House Baratheon of Dragonstone, rulers of the Stormlands, extinct as of the Battle of Winterfell in 302 AC, and House Baratheon of King’s Landing, rulers of the Crownlands, brought to extinction with the suicide of King Tommen Baratheon. House Tyrell, rulers of the Reach, was wiped out with the destruction of the Great Sept of Baelor and the Sack of Highgarden. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater is the current head of that house, though there seems to be no official name. House Baratheon had been legally extinct until the legitimization of Gendry Baratheon, King Robert’s only surviving bastard. Ramsey Bolton, the sole heir of his house, had been killed during the Battle of the Bastards in 303 AC, rendering House Bolton formally extinct.

The Great War, which began in 304 AC and ended in 305 AC, was the eventual culmination of the long-festering tension beyond the wall. It was only the second war waged by the White Walkers, the first of which having occurred some thousand years previous during the first Long Night. While the armies of the living eventually saw to their own victory, this brought with it much devastation; the destruction of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, massive damage to Winterfell, and the annihilation of Houses Umber, Karstark, and Mormont.

House Manderly of White Harbor was one of the most powerful vassal houses in the North. While at one point in time they were a noble house in the Reach, they had since been driven out and given sanctuary by House Stark, whom they swore fealty to in exchange. They were one of the richer vassal houses through use of fish, grain, and overseas trade.

Lord Wyman Manderly had fought in the War of Five Kings but after his youngest son was slain at the Red Wedding, he decided to withdraw his forces from conflict, choosing to remain at White Harbor so that no more of his men’s lives would be lost. He did not play a role in the Battle of the Bastards, refusing summon from Houses Stark and Bolton and instead opting to remain a neutral party. However, he and the other Northern lords arrived in Winterfell shortly afterwards in order to treat with Jon Snow. He once again pledged fealty to House Stark and was subsequently the first to declare for Jon as King in the North.

He was initially against the idea of Jon renouncing his crown and pledging himself to Daenerys Targaryen but eventually circled around to the thought, more so following the defeat of Cersei Lannister and her forces at King’s Landing. Now he supported Sansa Stark as queen in the north once the Northern territories regained their independence from the Iron Throne.

Since then, Lord Manderly had regularly operated as a consultant of sorts to the young queen. Sansa did not have a small council of her own so she often called upon the lords of neighboring houses in various matters pertaining to the Northern Kingdom and acting upon the interests that would best serve her reign.

He had been instrumental in aiding her getting the North back on track and further re-building of Winterfell. While these last few years have seen a majority of the castle restored, Sansa knew it would never see its former days of glory. A few of the wings of the castle were still in need of construction. Some of the living quarters would not be seeing hosts for some time.

Manderly sat rigid, as he almost always did, staring at Sansa; “Our combined armies have suffered severe casualties,” he pointed out—he was right about that, “In these three years, we have not been able to recoup many of the men lost. If we were to suffer attack from the Southron armies at this point, I cannot guarantee we would have the numbers to counteract.”

“Lord Manderly,” she began, “while I am fully aware of our situation, I doubt any Southron army would attack the North. My cousin resides over them as their king. They would be foolish to attack any member of his family without harsh reprisal.”

While he supported Sansa as their queen, Manderly did sometimes wonder if her youth and inexperience would one day work against her. “Your grace—“ he paused, exhaling slowly, “—might I speak candidly?” He waited; she nodded towards, indicating she given approval. “Many of us, including myself, are truthfully pleased for the Northern independence once again but…”

Sansa’s brows knitted together, then one arched on her forehead, “Yes, Lord Manderly?”

“In three short years, you have managed to do quite well for yourself and your people. Your ability to command lead has always impressed me. There are some, however, who might not hold the same convictions as I.”

Somehow, she had managed to steal her expression though the fact she would have anyone within her kingdom questioning her ability to rule had ruffled her. “I am aware it is typically the male heir of the house who is groomed to one day assume lordship of his house. Forgive me Lord Manderly but my father never taught his daughters about holding a political position nor how to maintain one. I may be a woman, but I have fought hard for this kingdom’s independence and will continue to do so. If anyone sees issue with this, I challenge them to take up their concerns to my face and not behind my back.”

He thought fondly of her and knew she had good intentions. He had faith in her, as he did her father. Though she was very much her mother through and through. She was the only one of the Stark children to have the Tully coloring of her mother’s house. He liked to believe she inherited her mother’s political prowess as well; he admired that in her.

Manderly nodded. Still, he had a thought; “Perhaps a marriage to a second son of a noble house would strength your claim.”

It was considered normal for the nobility to enter into arrange marriages for strictly political gain. By binding two noble families together, it obligated them to provided military aid to the other in times on conflicts. Such marriages have signaled the union of two separate kingdoms, i.e.: House Targaryen and House Martell when they intermarried to unite Dorne with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her mother, Catelyn, had been betrothed to marry Brandon Stark, the eldest son and heir of Winterfell. But he had been brutally murdered, alongside his father, by the Mad King, Aerys II Targaryen. Instead, she had married his brother Eddard though both barely knew the other. Their marriage was fortunate enough to prosper into a formidable and loving one. Contrasting Brandon’s hot-blooded nature, Eddard was quieter and more reserved.

While not thrilled at the prospect at yet another arranged marriage, Sansa knew this would come up in conversation eventually.

“Lord Manderly…” she sighed, choosing how to approach this; she knew he meant well, “I have endured three arranged marriages before. One of those people took my father’s head, the other raped me on a nightly basis, and the third was forced upon us both.”

Sansa paused, taking a moment.

Be it talk of potential marriage or something else entirely, she steepled her fingers beneath her chin, then slowly rolled her eyes shut, and eventually her hands would palm the front of her face until each were pressed against her forehead.

Lord Manderly took note of this change and looked troubled, “Your grace, are you alright?“

Sansa had not been completely dismissive, but she knew the answer to his query was far more complicated. “I just reminded myself I ought to have eaten yet today and I forgot…”

“I can have something brought,” he suggested. “Lemon cakes maybe.”

Her stomach turned. “Something else possibly.”

Lord Manderly seemed surprised; he knew she loved lemon cakes; she told him so herself. He eyed her suspiciously and Sansa did all she could to avoid his accusatory gaze.

She knew what ailed her. Perhaps she had known for some time.

The earliest sign materialized a short time ago. She began experiencing this unusual bout of fatigue, going on two weeks now. It was the lingering tiredness, constant and limiting. Unexplained, persistent, and relapsing exhaustion. The unable to function or be productive type of enervation.

The normal foods she craved no longer seemed appetizing to her. While she avoided certain foods, others seemed to make her mouth water. Foods she would not normally be eating.

Half a week ago had brought on a brand-new symptom.

The lemon cakes she normally enjoyed—a sweet baked dessert, made using lemons, and typically served as small cakes—were a rarity in the North so her obsession with the treat was more understandable. Citrus fruits such as lemons did not grow as far as the North. Because of the means of food transport and preservation being what they are, such a treat was relatively expensive. She no longer wanted anything to do with them.

However, the most apparent tall-tell sign for her was the absence of her monthly cycle which had normally been fairly regular, with the exception of that _darker_ period of her past. Sansa had been stressed out, so she marked it up to be a possible reason for the late arrival… but then it had not arrived days later…

She sought out a maester, who confirmed her suspicions.

___ ___________

_Three-year-old Sansa sat patiently on the corner of her parent’s bed with two dolls, one in each hand. The red-haired one was named Anne and the black haired one was Mary. Mary was the latest of her dolls, gifted by her father on her nameday._

_She and her mother had been spending time together playing with these dolls while six-year-old Robb was in the courtyard with their father. He wanted to shoot and ride, Sansa wanted to play with her dolls._

_A three-year-old could only be patient for so long._

_Her mother should be here playing dolls with her but instead, she had run off to the privy. Now, little Sansa was sitting there, curiously wondering, as any toddler would, why her mother seemingly did not want to play dolls with her anymore._

_Soon enough, Catelyn returned to her daughter._

_Sansa handed over the red-haired doll; “Here. You play.”_

_Catelyn smiled, innocently, but rejected the doll. She could see her daughter’s face begin to turn. It meant she was about to cry. This broke her heart._

_“Sansa, sweetheart, not right now, okay?”_

_The little girl sniffled. “Awight mama?”_

_“Of course.” Catelyn took the black-haired doll from her daughter, placed both dolls on top of the bed, then scooped the toddler into her arms. “Sansa, do you know what a baby is?”_

_Confusion crossed little Sansa’s face for a second before she spoke about her baby sister. “Sissy?”_

_Catelyn nodded. “That’s right, Sansa. Your sister Arya is a baby.” She grasped her daughter’s tiny hands. “Well, what would you say if I told you Mama has is going to have a new baby soon.”_

_Sansa looked astonished. “Mama haw nother baby?” She looked at the way her hands were situated on her mother’s thigh and then raised her head, short red hair bouncing over her ears._

_“Yes, that’s right.”_

_She thought on it a moment, thought about her sister, then pulled her hands back and scrunched up her tiny face in disgust. “Don’t wanna haw nother sissy!”_

_Catelyn knew the tall-tell sign of a pending temper tantrum and usually a single glare from either parent could squash those hopes rather quickly._

_But instead of that, she remained calm; “Mama might not have another sissy.” She loved her children equally, but it was always Sansa who was the most difficult at times._

_“I might has whittle brotha?” Her mother nodded; she felt somewhat better._

_Her brother Robb was her world. Her rock. Whenever baby Arya was being too much of a pest—even though mama and papa would always remind her that babies were like this; she was like this—and mama and papa seemingly paid **her** more attention, Robb would offer to play dollies with her. Several years later, she would find out he did not care for this at his age but pleasing his sister meant more to him than his own wants._

_Yes, having another brother would be sufficient. She liked brothers. She did not like sisters. Though she supposed Arya was… tolerable on some days. To a toddler, tolerance swayed minute-by-minute._

_Suddenly, Sansa jumped to her feet, like a spark of imagination ignited in her tiny brain. As she walked, the bed adjusted. Mama always told her never to jump on the bed. But she had a mission. An especially important mission. One that could not delay, not even for a moment, and one she was sure bouncing on the bed would be forgivable just this once._

_Catelyn had trouble keeping up with the fury of a small child bouncing this way and that, diving under pillows, leaping to the floor and dropping to her knees to peak under the bed, and even the pitter pattering of little feet on the floor boards as Sansa zipped off to the wardrobe._

_Try as she might, the small child could **not** get the doors open._

_Shaking her head with amusement, Catelyn wondered aloud; “Sansa, sweetheart, whatever are you looking for in there?”_

_The wardrobe door rattled from her teeny fists pounding on the wood. “I look fer mah brotha!” She continued trying to open the wardrobe, but the doors would not budge._

_While Catelyn found this amusing, her toddler did not think so._

_“Sansa, come here darling.”_

_She either did not hear her mama calling for her or she did and just chose not to listen. After all, she still had her mission, and that was to find her brother. The one mama said she was going to get. She did not understand the concept of where babies came from. To her, it was perfectly logical to think she would find her baby brother hiding somewhere._

_When mama called for her a second time, Sansa stopped what she was doing, shot a sideways glance over her right shoulder, and a raised an eyebrow. Her eyes were wide and big, like giant saucers. Those eyes, those large blue Tully eyes, were curious. Searching. Pleading._

_She scampered over to mama when she was called for a third time and hastily pulled herself back onto the bed, with a little assistance of course._

_Again, she scooched into mama’s lap; “The baby isn’t in the wardrobe, Sansa,” mama told her. Sansa’s face began to crumple up as she prepared herself for a meltdown. “Babies grow inside mamas’ bellies so they can get strong enough before they come out.” She angled her head to the side. “_ _The mama and papa make a baby, the baby grows inside the mama's belly, and the baby comes out when he or she is ready…”_

_Wordlessly, Sansa reached for mama’s belly._

____________

Some people have extremely broad memories while others only recall specific stores, memories from a specific moment in time.

Memories as far back as hers were not easy to recall, or she had blocked them out altogether. But she was able to retrieve this information more easily because it encompassed similar subject matter to her own current emotional state.

She averted her eyes from Lord Manderly, casting them downward.

“Your grace, are yo—” _Expecting._ He began, his suspicions arising from knowing the signs. His wife had birthed him two sons; his eldest was Wylis, who had two children of his own, and his youngest—gods rest his soul—was called Wendel.

He did not need his queen to spell it out for him. He knew.

But Sansa, she silenced him, her tone was raucous and challenging. “Leave me… and do not speak of this to others!” Her chest tightened. She had only recently uncovered the truth and dreaded the thought of others discovering this as well and what it would mean if they did.

Lord Manderly said no more. He bowed out gracefully, keeping his lips buttoned.

Once he had gone, Sansa took to staring out the window. Her initial reaction was one of complete disbelief, which gradually thawed away into general anxiety.

The maester questioned her.

In the end, she never revealed who the babe’s sire was. She was given options. Moon tea, or tansy tea, was a medicinal herbal tea used to prevent or abort pregnancies. It was generally made from tansy, mind, wormwood, a spoon of honey, and a drop of pennyroyal—a flowering herb used for its medical properties.

She had been sneaky in taking it prior to the moment she dreaded Ramsey coming to her every night, and afterward for maximum effect.

But, this was different. The situation was different. This babe’s father was not someone she despised or who forcefully impregnated her. Sansa trembled at the thought of ingesting moon tea, of aborting a babe she had already come to love in her heart. She was quick to dismiss the maester’s suggestion. She would figure this out. Somehow. Only so many moons would pass before her condition would be obvious.

Sansa settled a hand on her belly, still quite flat. The maester had guesstimated how far gone she was. And by her own calculations—if she was being accurate on possible date or timeframe of conception--it was approaching two months.

There was still so much she had to think about with extraordinarily little time in which to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fairly easy to get out. I knew exactly what I wanted to write down. So what would normally have taken me a full week, really only took me a weekend... not even that.
> 
> So, yes... Sansa _is_ pregnant as if that came as no surprise to anyone who read previous chapters. Tbh, I wasn't initially planning for that to happen but the more I thought about it, the more I decided it probably wouldn't be a bad idea after all. And I definitely wasn't looking to have her find out in the standard way I see in _many_ fics so I opted for something slightly different. I hope y'all like the direction I took with it.
> 
> The next chapter will see us back in King's Landing and will likely take place around the same time chapter eight did, just so I can show Podrick's POV from the other side of Westeros. 
> 
> I don't know how long this will be but I'm excited to find out. Also, I had to take some liberties when writing this, and definitely, the story in general, because a lot of houses and heirs of those houses were completely dismantled after the White Walker so I did incorporate some book lore in here. Lord Manderly only had one son in the show, who died at the Red Wedding. In the book, he had two. For the sake of storyteller, I incorporated his family from the books.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me :)


	11. Honored Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a weary world.”_  
>  ― William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

The White Sword Tower was one of many towers within the Red Keep. It was a slender, four-storied edifice into an incline of the castle that oversaw Blackwater Bay.

The undercroft held the arms of armor of the six brothers of the Royal Guard, who all resided on the second and third floors in small spare sleeping cells. The topmost floor was given to the Lord Commander. Those rooms were spare, but spacious, and stood high above the outer walls.

The first floor was formed of a circular white room and had whitewashed stone walls decorated with white wool tapestries. A weirwood table shaped into that of a shield sat in the middle of this room and the seven chairs around it provided a meeting space.

Sitting atop of it was the Book of Brothers—informally known as the White Book. It was the Lord Commander’s responsibility to keep the entries updated. Every knight who had been inducted into the Royal Guard since the reign of Aegon I Targaryen had a page within that book. The top left-hand corner had drawn the knight’s personal or family arms whilst the bottom right-hand corner were the Royal Guard coat of arms.

Podrick had seen this book several times before. He was familiar with the known entries.

_\-- **Prince Aemon Targaryen** : Called the Dragonknight after his noble heritage. Second son to Viserys II Targaryen and brother to King Aegon IV and Queen Naerys Targaryen. Raised to the Kingsguard in his seventeen year and afterwards rose to Lord Commander (…)_

Aemon Targaryen had served under no less than five kings within his lifetime and was described as the noblest and greatest of knights to have ever lived. His skills with a sword had been legendary. Songs spoke of his doomed loved for his brother’s queen, supposedly shedding tears when she was wed to him, though spoke in her defense when she was suspected on treason; rumors had circulated, implementing him as the father of Prince Daeron, Aegon’s son and heir.

He once won a tourney under disguise because his brother had not permitted him from participating. But in the end, under the disguise of _The Knight of Tears_ , he was able to crown his sister the Queen of Love and Beauty. Despite the difficult relationship these brothers faced, it did not dissuade Aemon from giving his life honorably in service of his brother and king.

_\-- **Ser Duncan the Tall** : Born in Flea Bottom. Squired for Ser Arthur of Pennytree. Knighted in his sixteenth year. Bested Baelor Breakspear with aid from Aerion Targaryen. He discovered a plot to usurp the prince and defended him in the Blackfyre Rebellion. He was raised to position of Lord Commander soon afterward (…)_

Duncan the Tall was a semi-renowned knight, the topic of numerous ballads and narratives. He was a great friend to King Aegon V Targaryen. His entry in the Book of Brothers included his personal sigil: a shooting star over an elm tree on a sunset orange background.

His journeys had begun during a tourney at Ashford, which led to a trial by combat. Prince Aerion Targaryen demanded a trial by seven—an exceedingly rare variation of trial by combat in which a man chooses two teams of seven men instead of a one-on-one fight. Baelor Targaryen had indirectly met his own end due to a concussion dealt by his own brother. By the end, Prince Maekar Targaryen had allowed Ser Duncan to take on his youngest son as his squire.

Unfortunately, Ser Duncan had perished in a mysterious fire at Summerhall, indirectly caused by the very person who once squired for him.

\-- ** _Ser Gerold Hightower_** _: (…) Lord Commander under King Aerys II Targaryen. Sustained injuries whilst defending the honor of Dornish princess, Elia Martell. Temporarily handed command to Ser Arthur Dayne because of these injuries. Dispatched to locate crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen during Robert’s Rebellion in 281 AC (…)_

Gerold Hightower was known as the “White Bull” due to his immense strength. He held blind loyalty to the Mad King, regardless of how cruel or bloodthirsty Aerys had been. He was present when Rickard Stark and his son were executed.

He was left at the Tower of Joy, along with fellow knights Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Arthur Dayne, to guard Lyanna Stark. Despite evidence the Targaryens had lost, he adamantly refused to bend the knee to Robert Baratheon. Gerold Hightower had met his end by the force led by Lord Eddard Stark, though it was unclear who dealt the killing blow.

_\-- **Ser Arthur Dayne** : Second so of Beric Dayne, Lord of Starfall. Appointed to the Kingsguard by Aerys II Targaryen in his twentieth year. A knight of House Dayne, bearing the title “Sword in the Morning”, and the only Dornish member in the Kingsguard along with Lewyn Martell under King Aerys II Targaryen. Won many tourneys against Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Beloved by the people. _

_Knighted Ser Jaime in his fifteenth year (…)_

Podrick paused reading. He must not have known this before. Ser Jaime rarely spoke of the Kingsguard during the Mad King’s reign. Then again, the young knight had never asked, either…

_(…) Killed alongside with his avowed brothers at the conclusion of Robert’s Rebellion, presumably by Lord Eddard Stark_

Arthur Dayne was regarded by many as the greatest knight who ever lived. This included the man presumed to be his killer. He was such a skilled swordsman that he could wield Dawn—the ancestral sword of House Dayne—in his right hand and a second sword in his left.

As a child, Podrick heard those stories of Ser Arthur Dayne and grew a strong admiration for the man, as if he somehow knew him.

_\-- **Ser Barristan Selmy** : Firstborn son of Ser Lyonel Selmy of Harvest Hall. Knighted in his seventieth year by King Aegon V Targaryen after defeating Ser Duncan in the Winter Tourney at King’s Landing. Slew Madys the Monstrous. Defeated Lormelle Long Lance and Cedric Storm. Named to the Kingsguard in his twenty third year (…)_

He had been considered a most honorable man in all of the Seven Kingdoms and served in the Kingsguard under King Aerys II Targaryen, later serving as Lord Commander during the reign of Robert Baratheon. He did the same whilst Joffrey I Baratheon was king, though was publicly dismissed shortly thereafter.

Podrick never had the pleasure of meeting the man in person though was told of his reputation for honor and chivalry, something he strived to continue living up to. He was extremely brave and courageous and fought quite well for a man of his age, able to duel with much younger, agile and skilled swordsmen. This was a man who valued honor and loyalty above all else.

Though horrified at the atrocities of the Mad King, Barristan was a strong supporter for House Targaryen. It was a shame, then that he had not lived to see Daenerys Targaryen—daughter of a king he once served for--on the throne.

_\-- **Ser Jaime Lannister** : Squire for Barristan Selmy. Knighted and named to the Kingsguard by Ser Arthur Dayne in his fifteen year, the youngest of any member. Murdered his king, Aerys II Targaryen, at the Sack of King’s Landing. Given pardon by Robert I Baratheon; thereafter known as the Kingslayer (…)_

He had known Jaime Lannister for years. Maybe not personally—not until much later—but knew _of_ him, and occasionally crossed paths here and there; squiring for Tyrion ensured he would at least come into contact with the elder brother at least a few times. In the rare moments when they did come across each other, Podrick always clammed up, never knowing what to say. Jaime intimidated him. _Everyone_ knew him as the Kingslayer. Maybe it was the reputation alone that intimated Podrick more than the man himself.

Jaime was known for his handsome looks, his superior fighting skills, his confidence—everything Podrick believe he was lacking. Where Jaime excelled in social elegance, the younger seemed far more introverted. He preferred the calmer, minimally stimulating environments to the boisterous, emotional ones. Whenever they seemed dissatisfied or irritated with him, he wanted to shirk away from society. He felt drained after socializing with others and often chose to regain energy by spending time alone.

Years of intense interaction with others, others he slowly gotten to know, had brought him out his shell more and more, though he much rather be alone sometimes. Some knight he turned out to be. Who would ever want someone like him, someone who hated being so extraverted a majority of the time, to uphold the honor of protecting them when he could hardly manage to live a normal life?

Podrick supposed that he owned Jaime his life.

In the aftermath of Joffrey’s assassination, he was approached by a man of the City Watch, a Gold Cloak, and offered a knighthood on the condition he testified against Tyrion Lannister. But by refusing the offer, he implicated himself in the king’s murder. He only agreed to leave King’s Landing after being outright forced to. The event saddened him. Though he knew in his heart that Tyrion meant well, a little voice from his past kept whispering that it was an outright rejection. He had been passed between people since his fourth year of life; what was just one more person?

Podrick likely would have gone off on his own, left wondering throughout Westeros, had it not been for Jaime assigning him to squire for Ser Brienne. He insisted it was not safe in the capital and sending him off with Brienne was a favor to Tyrion.

It would be years before either would see each other again.

When Sansa received word from Cersei in King’s Landing, she sent Brienne and Podrick in her place. As her squire, Podrick was duty-bound to follow Brienne. It never occurred to him to ask Sansa, nor was it his place. Upon their arrival to the capital, he was once again reunited with his former lord, stating he was glad to see him. Though he did not attend the discussions at the Dragonpit—leaving with Bronn shortly after arriving—he did end up returning to Winterfell shortly afterwards.

When Tormund brought word the army of the dead would be at the gates of Winterfell before sunrise, there was an immediate gathering in the war room. Dismissed, all manner of castle inhabitants – in their own unique ways – decided how to spend what all of them presumed as their last night alive.

As they faced down the army of dead on the battlefield, Podrick stood aside Brienne, Jaime, and the knights of the Vale in the left flank. Once the onslaught became too much, and they were forced to retreat back into the interior of Winterfell, he stuck in close proximity to Jaime, fighting wave after wave of wights as they attacked. He was one of the few to survive the battle, though had not escaped unscathed. The crypts are where Jaime had found him even though he must have blacked out from his injuries; Podrick was not even aware until he awoke sometime later.

Podrick stopped there.

Before he could continue, a shadow loomed over him, followed closely by footsteps. His heartrate quickened. He knew he should not be here.

The sound, the breathing; he knew who it was.

He could not spin around fast enough; “S-Ser Jaime…!” His chest was pounding, his respiration elevated. The skin of his cheeks began to brighten a cherry red. “I-I mean… My Lord! I, um… I was just—”

“My Lord,” he repeated, pausing for a slight laugh, “I suppose so… though _Lord_ Jaime Lannister just doesn’t have the same ring to it as _Ser_ Jaime Lannister does it?”

Podrick took a step backward and began to sputter. “I Su-suppose not…”

Walking over to where Podrick stood, he glanced over the knight’s shoulders to the page he last had open: _his_ page. Jaime smirked. “A bit of light reading are we?” He once became disillusioned with the Kingsguard long ago, and of being a just, honorable man.

“Oh, um, I just—I mean, I-I’m sorry, my Lord Hand… “

“Jaime, my name is Jaime…” He smirked then puckered up his upper lip before returning his focus to the book, which was left open to his pages. But the way he looked at it, the way his face looked—it suggested he had not glanced at the book in quite a while.

“How long has it been?”

Jaime met his gaze. “How long has what been?”

“Since you last looked at the book…”

“Oh.” Jaime nodded. “To be honest, I—“ he gave a slight chuckle, though mildly uncomfortable; his last memories of being in this room were not great ones, and ones he would want to forget.

It was shortly after Tyrion trial-by-combat. Oberyn was fighting for him. But, Ser Gregor Clegane was fighting for Cersei. She found him sometime afterward, in the very spot he stood now. He expresses such disgust at the deliberate assassination attempts on their brother’s life. Even after all those years, she still held Tyrion to blame for the death of their mother despite the fact he was just an infant and thus had no control over what happened. He was family, whether she chose it or not.

Unfortunately, she did not see it the same way. Tyrion was not her family; she chose her family—she chose Jaime, and she revealed to him that she spilled their secret of their incestuous affair to their father. He was initially stunned by her actions. She began to seduce him. He eventually yielded to her advances and they had sex right there… on the table.

So Podrick wanted to know how long it had been since he last looked at the book? Jaime had a truthful answer, but none he was willing to share.

Jaime decided a white lie was best; “I don’t really remember.” He flipped back and forth through the pages, not really stopping at any particular one. He knew what most of it said anyway. “It is the duty of the Lord Commander to fill these pages…”

“Yes, I know.” He flipped through the book until he landed on the last of Jaime’s then pointed to the latest written entries. “I would know Ser Brienne’s penmanship anywhere.”

Jaime pulled the book towards him to get a good look. It was then that he began to read. “ _Captured at the battle of Whispering Wood, later set free by Lady Catelyn in exchange for finding and guarding her daughters. Taken prisoner on the Kingsroad. Lost his hand…”_ He absentmindedly started rubbing at his golden hand, as if his real one was still there. “Ah, I see she mentioned _that_ in here…” What he said was almost too muffled to understand, not that he was aiming for anyone to hear him; Jaime purposely made the comment to himself.

He had made a deal with Catelyn Stark: Brienne would escort him to King’s Landing in exchange for her two daughters. Jaime gave his word. After being successfully smuggled out of the camp, they traveled by other means to evade pursuit. He jostled her about her appearance, attempting to goad her into a duel, but this had not worked with her. The pair soon discovered a trio of women, hanged for trysts with Lannister men. Brienne wanted to bury the bodies. They were soon accoster by a trio of Stark soldiers who recognized Jaime. She dispatched them quickly, impressing Jaime with her skill.

Further on their travels, they crossed paths with a traveler. It seemed innocent at first, but Jaime was certain they were recognized and urged Brienne to kill him. She refused. They took the bridge once they reached the river, but he managed to distract her long enough to grab a sword and engage her in a fight. While he was one of the most skilled swordsmen in Westeros, Jaime’s mobility was severely reduced by his manacled hands and being malnourished about spending the past year as a prisoner.

Eventually, Brienne got the better of him. Just as she could claim victory over him, riders from House Bolton arrived. Jaime wanted to negotiate but there was not much he could do; Locke would not be dissuaded from his prize.

He eyed the young knight. He debated something; whether or not he should be truthful or hide some of the grizzlier details. Jaime felt strangely… protective of Podrick. There were certain things he never shared with the younger man before. But, to be fair, the boy was not _as_ young anymore. “Unbeknownst to us, we had been followed by Roose Bolton’s men who later took us captive. They were only sent for me, so Brienne meant nothing to her. I knew at the slightest provocation, they would not hesitate to kill her. I told her that I were a woman, I would have fought to the death before being raped. I told Brienne… I told her, they would rape her when we made camp, probably more than once. I told her not to resist because I knew if she did, they would kill her…”

Podrick looked horrified. “They… they didn’t--?”

“No,” he answered quickly though not entirely sure if this would bring the lad any kind of relief. “That night, Locke’s men untied her and dragged her off to gang-rape her. I listened to her screaming. I knew she did not deserve that, and I was disgusted by pointless brutality so… I came up with a rouse. I said Tarth was called the Sapphire Isle because every sapphire in Westeros was mined there and Lord Selwyn would pay her weight in sapphires if she was returned unharmed. This worked as I wanted. But I was also arrogant and further attempted a bribe. At first, when they untied me, I was under the impression they would let me go. But he had me held down on a tree stump, he grabbed a carving knife and he… well… “ Jaime showed off his golden hand prosthetic while giving a short-lived laugh.

He had been left in physical agony, his severed right hand hanging around his neck. He was feverish and half-delirious. He was mocked and tormented by Locke and his men, being laughed at when he fell face first in the mud and drank horse urine. Though he managed to steal a sword, his feeble attempts to fight them proved entirely unsuccessful.

He had fallen into a bit of despair that night, refusing to eat anything, wanting to die. It was Brienne who encouraged him to live so that he might take his revenge. But without his hand, he was nothing. That was his sword hand. Without it, he lacked his identity. She questioned him, wanting to know why he had helped her, but he did not answer her. She grew angry. Brienne claimed this was the first time he _truly_ faced the real world, where people had things taken from them. He was being woeful, brooding about as a woman would.

Jaime read further, mostly to himself, curious to what else Brienne had written about him. What deeds, good or bad, she had included. But once he reached the last bit, the one that talked about his sister, his face became crestfallen. _So many memories_ … he thought, then slammed the book closed.

There were those he cherished… and still, those he wanted to forget.

When he fled to King’s Landing, he did so hoping to put an end to Cersei’s tyranny. He left Brienne behind because he knew, in his heart, that she would follow him to his doom if he only asked it of her. He could not do that. The guilt ate at him. Riding off, listening to her cries until they deafened in the night had nearly broken him. But, he was on a mission.

Jaime had not expected Cersei to be grateful to see him. He walked away from her after her threat to have him killed. He knew she was capable of almost anything. He tried to make her see to reason. He did not want her to still be there when Daenerys Targaryen brought forth her forces to the capital. There would be blood and destruction. If he could prevent it, he would. He had to try. But Cersei, she was having none of it.

And then she revealed to him the babe she had lost. _Their_ babe. Shortly after he fled to Winterfell. A succinct moment of heartbreak crested his face. Cersei berated him, told him the miscarriage was his fault. That leaving had broken her. Because of her sorrow, her body rejected the babe. Jaime’s heart was shattered. To lose a child was devastating but to have the blame and the guilt rest on his shoulders was—well, it was almost too much for him.

He was prepared to give her nearly anything if it meant an end to this. If only she would surrender peacefully. Knowing Daenerys would never keep Cersei alive, Jaime offered to smuggle her out of the city, against the safety of his own life. Daenerys would have his head if she knew. He considered the consequences. He knew Cersei was a terrible person, doing unspeakable things, but she was _still_ his sister. They shared a womb together. They shared children together. Jaime could not just forget decades worth of knowing her in every which way.

Cersei only laughed. And then commanded him to bring her the wench’s head. Even now, Jaime remembered the feeling of that moment. She specifically recalled on Joffrey’s wedding, and the counsel at the Dragonpit; both times, she had meticulously watched the wench gazing at Jaime. Both times, she _knew_. Jaime nearly panicked, this horrible bout of anxiety creeping into his heart. It was the Mad King all over again. He knew what he had to do. He did not want to. But if he did not, half a million innocents would die. Before he even knew what he was consciously doing, Jaime had his hands around her throat.

 _Valonqar!_ She screamed. _Valonqar! Valonqar!_ Over and over and over again. And then… _SNAP_! Her neck had been broken. When the life from her left, her body crumpled to the floor and all Jaime remembered was screaming into nothing. He was found here, kneeling over her dead body. He would never forget the way her face looked in death. The way her dead eyes stared at him. The slightest upturn of her lips.

He still dreamt of it from time to time. But when he did, it was Brienne laying at his side who would kiss the nightmares away. He would always be grateful for her.

Jaime stared at the Hand of the King emblem pinned to his chest.

Hand of the King, or sometimes Hand of the Queen, was the second most powerful appointed position in authority and responsibility. He, or she, was the closest advisor to the King, authorized to make certain decisions on the King’s behalf, and the highest-ranking of the Small Council. To this day, Jaime did not understand why Jon and Daenerys opted for him in that position.

Sighing, he clasped Podrick on the shoulder; “The things we do for love right?”

Jaime turned away and meandered out. 

Podrick’s eyes watched him leave until he had disappeared from sight entirely. Exhaling, he glanced again at the book, now shut up tight on the table. He considered opening it again but thought better of it and instead pushed away from the table.

Walking out, he only thought of one thing: _the things we do for love…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided Jaime and Podrick needed a bro moment :)
> 
> If you enjoy reading, please leave a nice review


	12. Lost in Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What preys on my mind is simply this one question: what am I good for, could I not be of service or use in some way?”_  
>  ― Vincent van Gogh, The Letters of Vincent van Gogh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... this chapter was rather hard to write... emotionally, that is. I kept thinking of how much Podrick truly wanted Sansa, how much joy he felt when _finally_ getting his wish... only for that fantasy to end as abruptly as it started. 
> 
> Also - I took a personality test for Podrick and concluded he's more ISFJ (Introverted Sensing with Extraverted Feeling). I might take one for other characters just to see how it comes out. :)

_The training yard is where all members of the Royal Guard came to hone their combat skills. Wooden practice swords were provided as opposed to the standard once each Guard carried. Training dummies of straw and cheap fabric were assembled to test sword fighting when not against a physical opponent. It was a modest yard, perhaps twice the size of the stables._

_In the center of the yard stood a young boy: yellow of hair, sharp green eyes, large assortment of freckles splashing his face. He was no older than ten years of age._

_The boy was called Cassian Pyke, a born bastard of the Iron Islands. Children born out of wedlock were referred to as bastards. All major religions in the Seven Kingdoms – the Faith of the Seven, the Old Gods of the Forest, the Drowned God – attached a terribly negative stigma to the bastardly. Such a disgrace of illegitimacy was so great that all acknowledged bastards who were born to nobles must identify through a specific surname. Acknowledged bastards born of the Iron Islands were called Pyke._

_At worst, a bastard stayed unrecognized and disregarded by their father, left completely in the hands of their mothers. Though some may fare better. At best, the child will be recognized – thus, being allowed to take one of the bastardy surnames – however, they would often be sent to a distant castle in order to be raised away from a noble’s lawful family._

_Typically, a young man would undergo years of extensive training to become a knight. Cassian was still a small child; a page was an attendant to a knight, i.e., an apprentice squire; at the age of four and ten, he could graduate to become a squire. Although he did not receive recompense for anything other than clothing, lodging and food, he was often rewarded with lessons in horse-riding and basic combat._

_Cassian was indeed sweet and charming and much more outgoing. He was vibrant, thriving off interactions with other people. He sought out social stimulation and rarely avoided unfamiliar situations. While Podrick typically needed to escape after a night with his friends in the Royal Guard or some intense meeting, Cassian felt like too much time alone was draining of his natural energy. He was outgoing and optimistic—happy, positive, cheerful, and sociable. Where Cassian did not mind taking his problems to others for discussion and guidance and was more willing to openly express himself, Podrick was more reflective, taking time making decisions, often internalizing whatever problems he had, or use his own imagination, to work out an issue._

_It was their differences in personalities that worked in their favor. Cassian was fond of the knight, taking enthusiastic fascination in studying his every move. And Podrick saw no issue in allowing it. This is what brought them to the training yard on a sun-drenched afternoon._

_Crossing the yard, Podrick reached for two training weapons; typically made of solid wood, these practice swords were shorter and narrower than a real sword made of steel. He took up one for himself and one for the boy._

_With a grin, he gave it a toss; “Here you are…”_

____________

And to think, this entire mess started with a simple favor…

 _Podrick, my boy_ , so said Tyrion, half-drunk as per his usual, _I have something of a… request…_

He wasn’t too sure of it at first. Very much doubting his abilities. But Tyrion said it would be good for him…for the _both_ of them… and Podrick believed him.

The dungeons in the Red Keep were subdivided into four separate levels.

On the upper most level were cells with elevated, narrow windows where many of the ordinary inmates would be housed together. The second level had lesser, more personal cells but lacked windows. These were for the highborn prisoners or valuable hostages. The third level had the Black Cells, reserved for those prisoners accused of such crimes as treason. These cells were lacking any source of light, except the occasional torch should a person jailed there would be paid a visit. There was a fourth, but hardly a man spoke of it. 

His jailers kept him in a cell on the upper level. The narrow window scarcely allowed a cast of light onto a floor buried in filth and dried out straw. Against one of the stone walls was a bed fashioned out of solid timber. The legs splintered, tiny pieces of wood chipping away. The mattress was lumpy and uneven. Towards one corner of the cell was a rot-infected wood stanchion.

Leaning against that pillar was Ser Podrick, sporting the aftermath of a fist fight between himself and a knight of the City Watch.

See, there was this kid, a child, no older than eight or so, a page boy Tyrion had taken on.

__________

_Cassian’s body jerked forwards._

_The practice sword nearly slipped through his fingertips, but he managed to recuperate at the last second though it took longer for his feet to find themselves again. He might have tripped over himself had it not been for the steady hand jutted against his shoulder blade._

_He looked up to see Podrick staring down at him; “Now,” he began, “get in position. Wait, hold on. No. Your feet, they’re… hang on… “ Taking a small step, he used his right foot to push Cassian’s feet further apart, and then his hands to forcefully guide the boy’s shoulders into the appropriate position._

_Cassian was instructed to liven up his stance. The proper stance put his body at approximately a 45-degree angle towards his opponent—which at this point, was Podrick—with his dominant foot forward and his non-dominant behind him, making what looked like the shape of an L._

_“Right. Good. Now… “ Podrick stooped somewhat lower to the ground, showing the boy how he should be using his legs, “Like this. Good. You want to bend your knees, but just slightly.” He stood straight momentarily then walked over to Cassian and pushed his fingers against the boy’s lower spine. In response, the boy arched his back slightly more so he didn’t look like he was slouching too much._

_Cassian seemed nervous; he wanted to make a good impression. “Like this, Ser?” His knees bent at a slight 15-degree angle._

_“Yes. Better. Now… “ Walking over to a more suitable position, Podrick pivoted on his feet until he faced the boy head on. His practice sword twirled in his hand. “…there are eight basic angles of attack: straight down, straight up, diagonally down to the right, diagonally down to the left, diagonally up to the left and left and right strokes horizontally.”_

_Each time he described a new angle, he demonstrated it. He wanted Cassian to be able to visualize, not just hear about, the instructions he was speaking._

_His sword lowered. “Right. Now I want you to attack me.”_

_Blinking, Cassian nearly forgot his stance. He just wanted to be sure he heard his instructions correctly; he didn’t think he had. “E-excuse me….?”_

_“You heard me.” Podrick got himself into position. “Use one of the eight angles I have demonstrated. I want to see if you’ve been paying attention.” He sensed the boy’s hesitation. He barely remembered what being ten years old felt like… but he remembered that all too familiarity of dread that pounded at his heart. “Don’t worry, Cassian. You won’t hurt me.”_

_“You promise?”_

_“Yes. I trust you.”_

____________

Cassian trusted him? Podrick hardly trusted him _self_.

His conduct earlier was unlike him. He would never be willfully malicious towards anyone, even when some might be cruel or harsh to him. He always counteracted with composure and civility. There was no honor in gratuitous brutality. This was unbecoming of a knight.

A knight was given his rank because of commendable service for a lord or the realm. They were faithfully motivated by a code of chivalry and honor. 

Because knighthood was entwined to the Faith of the Seven, it did not exist in cultures outside of the Seven Kingdoms. Becoming a knight required a sworn oath of fidelity to the Seven. The Faith of the Seven – also referred to as the New Gods – was the primary religion within the Seven Kingdoms. The only regions where it was not the majority religion was the North, where the Old Gods of the Forest were still worshiped, and the Iron Islands where they worshiped the Drowned God. 

While there were no different denominations within the Faith, various regions of the Seven Kingdoms could interpret and apply rules more or less strictly than others. The _ideal_ knight was not just an honorable warrior but a devout follower of the Seven. He once prayed to the Mother that he could be that ideal knight. Though not a stringent devotee to the Faith, Podrick held many of the beliefs very dear and near to his heart. 

He kept having this feeling that mayhap he should have anticipated something. Keeping his guard up was essential and he couldn’t even manage that.

____________

_Neither of them had seen it then; they were being watched. In the shadows of a large oak tree stood someone who had merely been passing through only to stop and observe and take a strange curiosity in the training._

_His name was Ser Trystan Layne. He wasn’t a knight of the Royal Guard but of the City Watch. He was arrogant, self-centered, with a narcissist personality. Ask some of his fellow Watchmen and he would say his dislike for those he considered weaker than himself to be unwavering. He believed himself to be better than everyone. His ego would not allow anyone to challenge him, lest they be taught a valuable lesson. Trystan wasn’t just egotistical but also somewhat sociopathic; his outward attitude was such a blatant disregard for sensitivity that many people, including Podrick, even wondered how he got to be in his position._

_After some time, Trystan decided to intervene. He didn’t come running out onto the field just as the sparring partners were trading blows but bided his time until the pair decided to pause for a break. That is when the slow, methodical clapping started._

_Even before Podrick turned around, he knew exactly who was there. This uncomfortable feeling suddenly washed over him like a flood. Cassian saw it. The look on Podrick’s face had said everything. The moment he decided to turn around, he knew why._

_Trystan was grinning, that sickening sweet-tempered type of grin; “I must say; I am incredulous. I mean, I knew you were soft, Podrick, but to get involved in charity work….” His eyes, orbs of such shadowy, enraged brown—not like Podrick’s softer, more hospitable gaze—bore such an antipathy that he wanted Cassian to feel intimidation._

_Cassian knew no such restriction in his outbursts as Podrick did. Trystan did naught but laugh at the pathetically failed attempt to attack him only for the boy to be physically held back. Whereas Podrick could be emotionally more controlled, Cassian’s temper was more abrasive._

_Trystan bent down, picking up the practice sword the boy dropped. He raised it to eye level, studying the wood grain and make of the weapon._

_Once Cassian settled, Podrick released him. “Um, can I have my practice sword back now?” He tried maintaining his ground, to keep himself pacified as he knew Podrick would be._

_“Hm?” Trystan asked, as if he never even heard the boy, then, “I suppose you can. Here you go, kid…” And he gave the sword a toss._

_But unlike before when Cassian was able to catch it, the wooden sword seemed to purposely thrown at him in such a way where he was sure not to be able to._

____________

As means to pass by some time, he struck up a tune.

 _“The Dornishman’s wife was_ _fair as the sun, and her kisses were warmer than spring”_ , began his song, singing it as easily as remembering to breathe… “ _But the Dornishman’s blade was made of black steel and its kiss was a terrible thing”_ … It was a popular and ostentatious song in Westeros, told from the viewpoint of a man who had carnal relations with a Dornishman’s wife and subsequently gravely wounded by her husband… “ _The Dornishman’s wife would sing as she bathed, in a voice that was sweet as a peach. But the Dornishman’s blade had a song of its own, and a bite sharp and cold as a leech…”_

Dorne was one of the nine essential regions of the Seven Kingdoms. The Dornishmen were ethnically distinct with vastly different customs and traditions compared to others.

The Dornishmen largely descended from Rhoynar emigrants who intermarried with the regional populace of Andals and First Men approximately a thousand years ago. The region joined the Seven Kingdoms through a peaceful marriage alliance nearly two centuries following the invasion of Aegon the Conqueror. 

Due to Dorne’s arid climate, it is one of the smallest overall populations. Dorne’s inhabitants generally congregated around the coasts The region was separated from the Stormlands by the Sea of Dorne, the coast rocky and mostly consisting of towering cliffs. The only prominent port was Sunspear, though poor when compared to Oldtown in the west or King’s Landing in the north. It lacked any major strength at and was not known as a noteworthy trade center.

The Red Mountains severely restricted overland travel between the isthmus and the rest of Westeros. While travel through the desert was possible via caravan, this was exceedingly difficult for larger armies to move across. The brutal gorges of the Red Mountains had been the location of border disputes between Dorne, the Reach, and the Stormlands, for the past thousand years. 

Central Dorne was entirely desolate. It was a true rolling-sands desert; not much vegetation, completely uninhabited of people… except for the occasional oasis-castle. 

Podrick had never been to Dorne before. But he knew Jaime and Bronn have. 

_“…as he lay on the ground with the darkness around, and the taste of his blood on his tongue, his brothers knelt by him and prayed him and prayed, and he smiled and he laughed and he sung”…_ He wondered what Brienne would think if she knew it was Bronn who taught him that song; as popular as it may be in _some_ circles, not everyone knew it by heart… “ _Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done, the Dornishman’s taken my life, but what does it matter, for all men must die, and I’ve tasted the Dornishman’s wife!”…_

Bronn had always been good to him. The former even displayed outwardly brotherly affection towards Podrick, something he rarely showed to anyone. 

When Podrick arrived in the Riverlands with Brienne, Bronn snuck up behind him and greeted him with a playful chokehold. He appeared jubilant to see his friend again, engaging in lude jokes about Jaime and Brienne fucking in the tent, something Podrick adamantly denied; _This seems ironic now,_ he thought. He offered a lesson in the arts of ‘dirty fighting’, to which the young accepted.

The door creaked open, starling him. In walked his Lady Commander with purpose in her step, each broken blade of straw crutched under the stress of her boots. He did not want to look at her immediately; the shame of his betrayal of a code he held so dear weighed strongly on him.

Eventually, however, Podrick _did_ lift his chin. He had dealt with her disappointment before but never had he seen the sheer amount of anger that was dancing behind her blue eyes. Never had he ever felt as small as he did in that moment.

He did not get the chance to speak; she went first; “What in the Seven Hells happened?! Ser Elwyn tells me you were involved in some kind of altercation!” She sounded spitting mad at him, which was understandable given the situation he was now in.

Ah yes, Ser Elwyn Kent, Commander of the City Watch—the law enforcement and military organization accountable for the protection and well-being of the capital city. They were known more colloquially as ‘Gold Cloaks’ because of the color of the capes they wore. 

Podrick exhaled, gradually, because his torso raged with pain; “I-I didn’t mean for this t-tt-oo happen…” His embarrassment over the whole incident lapsed him into a minor stutter. This typically occurred whenever he was too nervous about what to say. “It—It’s hard t-to explain...” He attempted an explanation for his behavior, but having to look into those eyes, and that face, when he knew how she must be feeling was tearing at his soul.

Brienne was not having it. “What you are going to do is explain to me _exactly_ what happened. Tell it all and tell it true.”

At first, Podrick could recall only fragments of what happened, and the specifics were a bit ambiguous. Aside from the array of bruises on his face and sections of his body, his head ached as if a stampede of wights had come trotting through his brain.

The more he focused, the more seemed these fragments were coming back to him.

____________

_Trystan brandished his sword at Cassian, pointing the sharp bladed tip at the boy’s face. Cassian froze; he never had an actual sword pointed at him before._

_He towered a full seven inches over the young knight. He also knew there was little chance Podrick would actually raise a hand against him. The past three years had proven the older of the two had more experience, both in physical strength and in swordplay; Podrick hadn’t been properly taught to wield a sword until he was nearing his eighteenth year._

_Podrick’s pleas for the young boy to be left alone had gone completely ignored. He took a step towards Cassian, inching the blade closer and closer until the boy could feel an echo of the steel’s kiss on his skin. He tried not to flinch. He tried being brave._

_But this wasn’t someone of his own age and size he was squaring up against; this was a child! This was an unmatched, unfair fight. Podrick knew Trystan must have known this. He also knew that Trystan wouldn’t have cared about a fair fight. His own sword lay on the ground just shy of his reach. He thought about it. He kept repeated the mantra of a knight over and over and over again, as if it were the same thing as each beat of his own heart._

_Trystan must have seen him working something out, must have seen what the younger knight had been planning. He tried to goad the knight into picking up the sword, to show this ten-year-old child how ‘real’ men fight._

_Real men? Real men? Real men didn’t harm innocent children!_

_Podrick’s blood began to boil. **Defend the weak and innocent, protect woman and children…** It was a repetitive song to him. With every heartbeat, that song just kept ringing louder and louder… **must fight fairly and honorably…** and the longer he witnessed Trystan’s blade pointed at Cassian, and Cassian trying not to quiver in fear, the more Podrick had wished he had been someone else._

_But as a knight, he knew only one thing: valor, virtue… honor. Heedless of his own safety, Podrick pushed the boy out of the way._

_Trystan’s blade slashed open the flesh above Podrick’s left eye._

_The younger knight tumbled to his knees. Fresh blood pumped through the wound in his temple, plummeting in torrents until a patch of grass beneath him had been soaked. His head lifted in time to see Trystan slashing downward with his blade. Podrick rolled away from him. Instead of it being skin the blade kissed, it ended up being the ground._

_He reached for his own weapon, still sheathed in its scabbard, and lifted it above him simultaneously as Trystan’s blade came down on him again._

_Podrick forced himself to stand, applying considerable pressure to his left knee until he could get his right leg in front of him. Grunting, he pushed against Trystan’s sword. His opponent reeled back, nearly losing his footing had it not been for the well place right foot behind him._

_He advanced, charging at Podrick with the long-sword upheld, going in for a foreswing only to follow it up with a backswing. The younger knight managed to dodge the first attack then met the second with his Valyrian steel sword. The weight momentarily sent his opponent’s blade back but not quite far enough. Trystan took a turn at Podrick’s midsection. The arching swing sliced at his clothing although missed his flesh, mayhap by a measly centimeter._

_His sword came down to stroke steel. Trystan jumped back, but Podrick had followed. No sooner had he parried one blow then the next had come. The pair sprang apart then came together again, steel meeting steel. Podrick closed the distance with his sword raised for what he assumed would be an overhead strike. Instead, the attack was a swift kick to Trystan’s midsection, keeping his weapon raised to intercept should his kick prove unsuccessful, or mayhap to deliver a follow up strike. He took a step to prepare for a full force overhead attack with such rapidity and resolve. However, Trystan wisely parried with the strong point of his weapon._

_Mildly impressed, the City Watchmen grinned; “Not bad… “ Without missing a moment, Trystan followed through with an attack eerily reminiscent of the same as Podrick’s from before._

_Whilst keeping his eye on his opponent and his actual target within his peripheral vision, Podrick side-stepped out of the way of the counterattack then attacked one-handed, dropping his blade to Trystan’s foremost leg. Taking a step background, Podrick twirled his sword as Trystan took note of the blood that blossomed from the fresh wound in his flesh._

_Trystan seemed surprised, momentarily taken aback. “Not bad at all…” As he recovered, he raised his sword again, so it was level with Podrick’s chest, though inches apart, as if he meant to drive it into the knight’s heart._

_Swing. Swing. Slash. Hack. Side-step. Parry._

_Each stroke of their swords had either been met with a swift counterattack, or the steel came together so greatly that sparks flew up every time they kissed._

_Trystan brought his long-sword down. It just narrowly glanced off Podrick’s left shoulder. The blade did naught but slice through the primary coating of fabric. He ducked low in order to avoid a secondary attack that would have surely taken his head. Podrick righted himself as another blow came at him at a 45-degree angle. He lifted his blade to parry. He then instead redirected the attack by pushing the sword out of the way with his own then moved in to counterstrike._

_He expatriated his adversary’s sword then stepped to hit as he attacked. As Trystan carried his sword towards Podrick, the younger mustered enough to deflect and launch his own attack, holding his sword in such a way he could effectively parry whilst adding power against Trystan’s attack. His opponent countered, stepping in while enough ferocity to knock him off-balance. Seizing an opportunity, Trystan stepped into Podrick’s space and hooked his foot behind the younger knight’s leg._

_Podrick quickly found himself flat on his back, staring up into the eyes of the opponent, with the sword’s tip pressed against his throat. “…but I am still your better.”_

_The younger knight felt the grip of fear, paralyzing him to the spot. It was such a palpable force that slowly crept over him; so immobilizing. He remembered that feeling. He’s had it once before. Back then, it was somewhat manageable as he was able to fight his way through it knowing the lives of those at stake were greater than his own. The shock of death’s embrace was all too real._

_He steadied his breath, trying to will himself to calm the panic that seized him. Had Cassian run off? If this were to be his end, he did not want that boy to see it. A taciturn upsurge of dread embalmed him as hairs rose on the back of the neck. The palms of his hands felt cold and clammy. His heart bellowed quite vociferously and in such an irregular rhythm, but he barely heard it._

_But Trystan… he took trifling enjoyment watching the way his sword moved ever so slightly as if such an insentient object could breathe, whenever Podrick’s pulse beneath the flesh of his neck would throb. He was tempted to slice him open. The cold steel blade pressed harder, tighter, against the young knight’s throat, damn near nicking the vein underneath it._

_Sucking in his breath, Podrick rolled as Trystan’s blade came down. Reaching, he gripped the sword that had fallen and climbed to his feet. Holding tight to the hilt, he squared off against his opponent. “We’re done here, Trystan. You haven’t proved anything, only the fact you would attack an innocent child.”_

_Trystan scoffed. “On come now, Podrick. We both know he’s as much a churl as you are.” He seemed to get off on goading a rise out of the young knight._

_“You will not refer to him like that again… or me.”_

_He feigned displeasure. “Oh, I apologize. Mayhap next time, I will aim differently. Very well…”_

____________

The forehead laceration roughly measured an inch or so in diameter. Though it had since stopped bleeding before now, the left side of his face had been coated in dried ringlets of his blood that didn’t stop until parts of his chin were caked in it.

It did not appear any worse than Podrick felt. It was mostly his own pride that had been bruised, despite the physical evidence on to the contrary.

The look on Brienne’s face was concerning; “Oh, I’ll be f-fine… “ _…but you should see the other guy…_

She did not think he _looked_ fine. This feeling of anger… it was overwhelming—rage gripped her, pulsing through her veins. Inwardly, she was seething. Brienne stormed in the cell with every intention of disciplining her former squire… _I trust you to handle this_ , Queen Daenerys had told her… but she hadn’t counted on _this_. Such an obvious display of bodily injury that required the appropriate attention yet did not seem to get it.

Brienne’s resentment grew inside her. She stooped low, putting herself at eye-level with the young man. She knew he was avoiding looking directly at her. She gripped his jaw, not rough and angry, but gently. Slowly, she moved it from side to side, visually inspecting not only the laceration on his forehead but the array of bruises in every corner of his face.

She was almost breathless with a ferocity that danced behind her eyes; “There was more that happened. I know there is.” It was such a tone in which anyone casually observing would have slowly backed away. It was a tone to suggest no one wanted to be on the receiving end of Brienne’s vehemence.

Yes. Of course, there was more. Much more. A great deal more than he wasn’t saying. These bruises on his face weren’t from a sword duel, though it would be far too easy for him to suggest they were.

At the moment he hesitated, Sansa’s face came to mind.

Podrick casually rubbed at his jaw. That first punch Trystan delivered glanced his chin. He noticed the second one too late for a dodge, the one that doubled him over, expelling the contents of his stomach. There had been a fair amount of pain. Podrick wasn’t a fighter. Hand-to-hand combat not being his forte though something he adapted early enough when he realized he would be dead if he didn’t.

Again, he met Brienne’s eyes. “There’s nothing.” _But there is everything… too much…_ “…is the boy alright?” He referred to Cassian, who must have run off soon after everything started.

“Cassian is well,” she assured him. “Pod, if you tell me _all_ you did was defend his honor – and that be it, I might believe you… but I know you well enough to know when you’re not completely truthful…” She extracted a folded-up parchment from her waist. Also, there was something else; a dagger wrapped tightly in beige cloth. Podrick recognized it instantly. “…I received a reply from Winterfell. Perhaps… you could explain this?”

He likely could. In a moment of pure instant, he reached for the dagger, still wrapped in the cloth. After a moment’s hesitation, his fingers plucked at the ties until the cloth unfurled, exposing the dragon glass that glimmered in the sun’s hue through the window. Reaching further still, Podrick’s hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger. He lifted it to eye-level.

Without conscious thought, his eyes filled with tears. Big, wet, salty tears. But tears that did not flow. He considered the meaning for a moment, and the night in which he gave Sansa the dagger—he did not know it would be the cause for so much heartbreak _now_.

Brienne’s heart shattered. She was beginning to understand what Sansa meant when she wrote that she was to blame for Podrick’s change in behavior. She wanted very much to know what was meant by _not the easiest of times saying farewell…_ but she had something of an idea.

Standing on her feet, Brienne left him there… but she could swear she heard the unmistakable tall-tell sign of Podrick’s tears _finally_ getting the better of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Churl/Churlish. This word originated from the old English word “ceorl” which is a derogatory term to describe the lowest social class. Using this word to an aristocrat or a tradesman is highly offensive and often resulted in duels or stabbings.
> 
> I researched some sword fighting choreography for this chapter and I think I'm happy with how everything turned out. 
> 
> It's _possible_ we might see more of the OC I wrote for this chapter but it all depends on how well they are received. I'm sure we all know someone like Trystan. I modeled him after my ex, lol.


	13. Pieces of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It’s OKAY to be scared. Being scared means you’re about to do something really, really brave.”_  
>  ― Mandy Hale, The Single Woman: Life, Love, and a Dash of Sass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew I needed to bring Arya in at some point, especially if this story was going to revolve around Sansa, and Winterfell, and-- well, it's _Arya_ so I couldn't _not_ bring her in. I knew I wanted to have a chapter with Sansa in the crypts so I figured this would be as good of a spot as any to re-introduce Arya and, also, have a little fun with it at Sansa's expense.

The crypts beneath the castle were massive; larger than the entire compound above ground, long and narrow with pillars moving two by two along the length of it. The ironwood door, located in the oldest portion of Winterfell, near the First Keep, and the lichyard—a type of graveyard in which held the servants of the old Kings—was ancient and hefty.

The most historic of tombs were located on the lower level, while the more current of those are located towards the surface. Many of these lower levels were half-collapsed and virtually unexplored; these facts made it fairly easy to hide down there for weeks or even months at a time, getting lost in a never-ending corkscrew of darkness.

Conferring with tradition, there ought to be eight thousand or so years’ worth of tombs, and while all Stark family members were buried there, only statues for the head of the family existed. Though, not surprising, some exceptions to this had been made i.e., Brandon Stark, Eddard Stark’s older brother, and his sister Lyanna. He ensured statues were made of his deceased siblings sometime after Robert’s Rebellion.

They say an infamous wilding rogue—Bael the Bard—seduced the daughter of a Stark lord, stowing away in the crypts for approximately a year, unnoticed, lengthy enough that this daughter eventually would reappear with Bael the Bard… and the infant son in tow.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon supposedly came here at the beginning of the Dance of the Dragons—a civil war during the Targaryen rule—which his dragon Vermax, who laid eggs within the depths of the crypts. Though Archmaester Gyldayn rejected this idea, though Bran and Rickon were always adamant about there being dragons down here so they ventured out to prove this testimony true. They never did find any eggs.

On occasion, Bran would come down to the vault with Jon, Robb, and his sisters. Arya sometimes hid in the crypts and played come-into-my-castle—a game played by numerous individuals, typically children. The idea was to educate noble children about courteousness, heraldry, and the friends and adversaries of their house. Since this was a game usually played only by nobles, commoners did not partake as they did not have castles.

Sansa didn’t come to the crypts to reminisce of old folk lore or legends. With a torch in hand, she descended the lengthy, spiral staircase to the first level of tombs. Her mother was entombed here, and it was her mother she sought comfort from now.

At 10-weeks pregnant, the ligaments and muscles within Sansa’s body began to stretch, her breasts were starting to get bigger—and tender to the touch--and a few other radical changes started taking shape. Nausea and vomiting were fairly common, and the deviations in her hormones were to blame for these fluctuation of emotions. Maester Wolkan said this was completely normal.

The thickening in her midsection was most likely due to a minor weight increase. She didn’t quite _look_ pregnant to people she came in contact with but her abdomen was starting to show off some extra curve at the baby’s continual growth. Sansa hadn’t noticed until she lay up in bed one night. Once she knew it was there, she couldn’t stop admiring it. She’d always be catching herself casually rubbing her thumb over the tiny nub in her belly and from there, began rationalizing what holding a babe of her own would be like.

But Sansa _also_ understood that the more she was justifying this new reality of hers, the more she was realizing just how much she didn’t _actually_ know. It wasn’t the realism of being pregnant she was trying to justify but this fictional world she concocted in her head. There was no one who could tell her how it would be. No one she could confide in. No one who knew how clueless she was, how emotionally terrified, how absolutely unprepared for this gigantic step she was.

Worst yet, Sansa did not have her mother there to tell her how it _should_ be. The one person she could truly use right now in these tempestuous times. The least she could do is offer up words of wisdom to her daughter, a woman barely twenty and four, who _claimed_ she had realistic worldly experience when there’s probably much more she didn’t know. If only Sansa could have her mother here with her. Just for a little while, at least. What she wouldn’t give to have her mother envelop in her in a pair of strong, comforting arms. To run fingers through her hair. To tell her not to worry; everything would turn out just fine… in the end.

If only Sansa could _assume_ it would. If only there were some way to gaze into her future, for just a moment, and see for her own two eyes that the idea of having this child out of wedlock didn’t hold as much stigmatism now as it used to. She wished she could _not_ care about that.

Somehow, finally locating her mother’s tomb had put her frazzled mind at ease. Sansa was silent in front of it, the only sound being the breath from her lips as she exhaled. The torch light did well enough to illuminate the shadows on the stone statue; the details of which she committed to memory. As she continued to stare, she started to get emotional. Hormones, as Maester Wolkan said.

Sansa lifted a hand, rubbing at her belly, and the small baby bump there. Just a knot by this point but still very very tangible.

__________

_Maester Wolkan seemed very surprised to see the young queen when she came strolling into his chambers, shutting the door behind her. Normally, he’d not question a visit from her but the manner in which she arrived seemed peculiar enough to warrant it._

_Ringing a cloth towel through his fingers, the pepper-haired maester gazed up at her. His eyes were more than just a little curious._

_Of course, he bowed his head first; “Queen Sansa,” was how he began, courteous as always, “this is a surprise. What brings you to my door at this hour?”_

_There, just outside his window, was tall-tell sign of evening. The moon was high, casting streaks of light of a bluish hue through the window pane._

_Wolkan was a member of the Order of Maesters and had previously been in service to House Bolton at the Dreadfort, but now obliged adherence to House Stark succeeding the Battle of the Bastards. He was the one who informed her of Cersei’s ascension to the throne, discussed resources such as food rations prior to the attack from the White Walkers, stood alongside her at Petyr Baelish’s trial and execution, and was present at her coronation—having been the one to crown her himself._

_Whatever Sansa needed, he would provide, as friend, as counselor, and as his duty befitting his station as a Maester._

_She didn’t panic, but he could tell something troubled her just by her body language alone._

_“Maester Wolkan,” when she spoke, she did so in mildly hushed tone, but calmed, “I must know that what we discuss must never leave this room…” The way she looked at him, those eyes—she was pleading for his silence without verbalizing so._

_Wolkan nodded. “Of course, your grace. Anything said to me in confidence will remain safe with me. I am bound by loyalty to you and House Stark.” Abandoning the cloth towel, he straightened his posture and slowly took a few steps towards her._

_Sansa sighed, rolling a hitching breath over her tongue. **Now or never…** “I… I believe I am with child, Maester Wolkan…” **…alright, now just breathe, slowly, in…and out…** and she observed as his face absorbed an array of emotions, surprise being the most apparent. _

_“How sure are you of this?”_

_Now that the door was shut, she ventured further in. “As sure as I am the breath that leaves me. When my moonblood hadn’t come as usual, I knew for sure then. My mother always knew whenever she was carrying a babe…”_

_Wolkan stepped aside. “Lie down, your grace. We can know for sure.”_

_Sansa did as instructed, though she shook with anticipation. She was nearly certain of her suspicions, as certain as her own mother had been. Perhaps she just needed to hear it aloud._

_The next few moments ticked by as if they were hours in a day, just as she felt when awaiting the oncoming wights, and the feeling of terror whilst hiding out in the crypts. Maester Wolkan examined her as thoroughly as can be, finding her belly tender to the touch. And when asked if her breasts felt swollen, Sansa was instructed to fondle them herself. She nodded, concluding they were._

_Wolkan could only confirm what she knew; “You suspicions seem accurate, your grace.” He waited until she was seated upright again, her legs dangling over the side of a cot, until her feet touched the floor. “I must ask you this, and forgive me for being forward… but were you taken against your will…?”_

_Sansa’s heart was thrown for a wild loop. Wolkan knew of her history with Ramsey, knew that vial creature would take her by force—he was the one who secretly provided the moon tea—but this, no; none had taken her against her will, nor would she allow a man to know her so intimately without devoting her heart and soul to that same man._

_Her head shook, knowing she could not be dishonest. “Maester Wolkan,” when again she spoke to him, her voice seemed almost….determined, “the man I laid with is honest, kind, and gentle. He would not have abused me as others have in the past.”_

_“You have… options, your grace…”_

_Sansa responded much quicker than she thought. “Absolutely not. I… I will never do that.” Mayhap a part of her was surprised by her own answer… considering what she faced as alternative._

_She knew what Wolkan was suggesting. He was suggesting she ingest moon tea. Her aunt, Lysa Arryn, once revealed to Petyr Baelish that she unknowingly consumed the tea to abort the babe she carried. Sansa only knew this because she was there. When faced with her own option, she already knew there was no possible chance in all of the Seven Hells that she could do that._

_At the very moment she made such a radical decision, Sansa began to imagine her child… **their** child—hers and Podrick’s… a babe they made together. _

__________

Though she had made the choice not to drink the moon tea, going back to her quarters that evening with the very real certainty of a babe had put her mind on edge. Whatever emotion Sansa felt—the disbelief, the anxiety--,she was vigilant not to show it. She was much more of the type to internalize her anxieties first as though having that mental dispute somehow made it better.

She thought mayhap she could sleep on it. So she did. In the morning, fresh and renewed, Sansa was awake before a castle maid could come fetch her. Hair undone, cascading over her shoulders, a white slip drapped on her body, she sat at her desk, pulled out a blank parchment, dipped her quill in ink, and began writing.

But, what would she say?

 _Dear Podrick, I am carrying your bastard child,_ didn’t sound so appealing. She didn’t know why this was becoming such a problem all of a sudden; it seemed abundantly clear to her what she _should_ be doing. Somehow committing these feelings of hers to paper wasn’t as forthright as she anticipated it would be.

Sansa must have gone through dozens of parchment paper. Each one started the same. They all ended up as crumpled bundles on her floor.

Nothing she jotted down sounded suitable.

Each and every last bunched up piece of parchment ended up in the flames. And she stood there watching them burn. Taking a walk to clear her head hadn’t worked. Praying in the Godswood hadn’t worked. Days would continue to pass her by and she knew by each day that did, her pregnancy would process that much more. Sansa felt guilty not being able to write out a coherent message. She kept asking herself over, and over again, _how difficult could this possible be?_ ….very, as it turned out.

The more she kept picturing him, their night together—the probable night this child was conceived—the more Sansa worried about a great deal of things, such as _how_ she would tell him and then worried about the disgrace that surrounded bastard children born out of matrimony. It was entirely possible for a bastard to become legitimized, but this was a special indulgence which was difficult to acquire and did not happen very frequently. She _could_ legitimize her child. She’d be within her right and authority as queen to do so. Sansa thought about it. She could tell them. Tell everyone. However, this stigma of bastardy was not automatically removed once the former is legitimized. Case and point, Ramsey Bolton.

Despite being legitimized as Ramsey Bolton, he was still looking at an uncertain future. Roose Bolton’s trueborn child with Walda Frey was indeed a boy, as they assumed, so naturally, _he_ was held far more legitimacy rights than Ramsey did. Sansa pointed this out to him once. She suspected this is why Ramsey had stabbed his father to death then fed his brother and Walda to the hounds. It was out of fear. Fear that inheritance would fall to the wayside once his brother reached legal age to assert his claim over their father’s lands and titles.

Her shame marriage to Tyrion Lannister had been annulled by Jon and Daenerys, which meant both of them were free to pursue other interests. And bearing in mind the fact Sansa swore off the idea of matrimony after her hideous marriage to Ramsey, she did not consider children to ever be in her future. Maybe the child she carried now was some kind of retribution? It was horrible for her to even contemplate the idea.

If life were to go as she planned, her mother would be here, she’d be married to a king, and the child she presented would the most beautiful, lovely prince in all of the Seven Kingdoms. This was certainly not the life Sansa planned for herself. Now she was faced with it. An uncertain future, an unplanned and unexpected pregnancy… all without her mother.

Resigning herself to the fact she would be getting no answers here, Sansa decided she would be going back to her chambers for some rest… if this babe would allow it. Between her own anxiety and the near constant nausea, trying to get some sleep was a mere pipe dream.

Though as Sansa turned away from her mother’s tomb, something darted past, just there… slightly off to her left side. She stopped, this sudden wave of dread steamrolling over her. “Hello?” She put the torch in front of her, hoping to illuminate whatever was trying to slink past her in the shadows. She wasn’t fearful— _nope_ , _not at all_ , a voice in her head kept telling her—except for the knowledge that last time she visited these crypts, she was hiding out from an army of undead.

The figure passed by again, this time from another angle. Sansa thought she might be losing her mind. She worried though; no one had known she was down here. If someone how followed her, it was irritating her this mysterious figure would rather stink to the shadows instead of making themselves known.

Sansa moved the torch to her front, the flames illuminating a few feet in front of her. There was nothing there but the glow from her torch and the shadows that surrounded her. _I must be seeing things,_ she was thinking. She waved the torch in front of her, back and forth, back and fire, the flames hissing and moaning in the drafty, shadowy crypt.

From behind her, she heard; “…were you just talking to yourself?”

Spinning round, nearly losing her balance, her heartrate elevated – though that _could_ have been pregnancy related, not the idea someone was trying to scare her – and moved the torch in front of her face, the fire’s glow casting light onto… ARYA!

“Oh my—Arya?!” Sansa felt torn; she hadn’t seen or heard from her sister in years – no one had – but at the same time, she absolutely _hated_ being startled like that and maybe a small part of her wanted to react instinctively by punching her sister in the face. “Wha- how- when did you get here…?”

“Just now.”

Sansa arched her left brow. “And you managed to sneak past all the guards?”

“Sister, this _is_ my home,” Arya commented with a smirk, “… or _was_ , and I’m fairly certain I still know my way around… enough to remain undetected. So- “ She cracked her knuckles, a sign she was settling for what she assumed would be _one hell of a story_. “ -how have _you_ been?”

~.~.~.~.~

The next few hours went by in a blur – Sansa recapping _everything_ that happened over the past three years, Arya trying to listen as intently as possible, and a lot of expressiveness from both of them; Sansa’s expressions ranging from annoyance to surprise to dismay and back to apprehension… Arya’s ranging from surprising to humorous to confusion and back to surprise.

By the end, Sansa was exhausted and Arya… she did her best to process, but the look in her eyes suggesting she might have endured way too much overload for one day.

Blinking, she said, “Well, damn. That’s… yeah…” as if she didn’t really know what to say and that was the only thing she could come up with.

Arya had always been a fiercely independent woman, rejecting the idea of social expectations such as traditional gender roles for girls – become a lady, marry for influence and power, emulate courtly values, etc. – and other prospects of her parents and siblings. Arya always believed she could forge her own fortune. Fascinated by warfare and swordsmanship and easily bored by embroidery and other “womanly” pursuits. This often put her at odds with her sister Sansa, who, in contrast, was a complete opposite in personality and interests.

Prior to certain events in her youth, before her innocence was destroyed, before her entire support system had been obliterated, Arya was so full of vitality, always making everyone around her smile by her effortless indifference to the rules. As more and more were taken from her, she became increasingly detached towards murder and death, further exacerbated when captured by The Hound.

Arya could be rather cold-blooded and slightly sadistic; though initially apathetic yet satisfied when killing Ser Meryn Trent and Polliver, the glee she felt over slitting the throat of Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, formally Lord of Riverrun, and even took pleasure in watching the rest of his family dying around him. While she certainly remained compassion and kindness, Arya’s time with the Hound and the Faceless Men had taught her to be ruthless in her pursuits of those who have bore her family ill-will. She was also completely willing to utilize psychological mind games prior to killing her enemies; repeating every last word Polliver said to Lommy before running him through with Needle, gouging the eyes of Ser Meryn before stabbing him, butchering Walder’s son before feeding them back to him inside of a pie.

To be fair, Arya was not entirely blinded by retribution. Once she learned that her family had retaken Winterfell, she ultimately chose to reunite with her siblings, choosing them over her own vengeance against her enemies… at least for the time being. After returning to Winterfell, she and Sansa initially found themselves at odds with one another due to Sansa’s naivety and supposed absence of support for Jon. However, this turbulent relationship of theirs was discovered to be a result of manipulation coordinated by Petyr Baelish, a fence now mended following his execution.

Following Jon’s marriage to Daenerys and subsequent crowning as King, Arya decided to bid a farewell to each of her siblings as she decided to leave Westeros, sailing west in order to discover what may lay beyond the known world. But after some time, she was beginning to feel homesick so she decided to sail home.

Arya knew things would be different… but she definitely hadn’t expected all this. “I think I need a drink… “ And off she went, pouring herself a sizeable serving of red wine; it tasted like piss – it wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t great either. Needed more fruitiness to it. “…you need one too after _that_ tirade.” Before Sansa could refuse, a chalice had been thrusted towards her.

Taking the chalice instead of outright dismissing the offer, Sansa brought it closer to her lips but did not yet take a sip from it. She held it just under her nose a tad, getting a mellow whiff of the beverage; her nose scrunched up, indicating her immediate dislike of the smell.

Sansa pushed the chalice back out, holding it away from her. “Just water will be fine.” Her stomach was already churning, as if she were going to vomit, but she kept the nausea at bay.

Wrinkling her nose, Arya simulated confusion. “You’re acting particularly dull,” she teased, though such an iron-clad expression on her face would make it hard to see she was merely saying this in jest.

She did take delight in watching Sansa’s brows narrow, perhaps even smirking a bit. However, Arya did as she was bid, replacing the red wine with a cup of cold water.

The chilled liquid satisfied her parched throat and rejected the nausea for now.

“Arya, please,” Sansa pleaded, taking a breath, “I can’t handle your sass right now. I have more important things to worry about.”

“But you _love_ my sass,” she countered, knowing full well that her sister did not appreciate her sass, often chastising her for it instead of laughing it off. “Alright, fine… what could _possibly_ be more important than your sister coming home? Are you not _thrilled_ to see me?” She feigned disappointment.

Sansa pursed her lips outward. “What? Of course I am! I’ve missed you since you’ve left. The fact you are here now brings warm feelings to my heart.” She sounded happy, at first, but that feeling slowly faded into a more somber tone. “Just… a lot is happening too fast and there are so many decisions I have to make now that I don’t want to an—“ Maybe it was a subconscious thing she did but as she continued speaking to her sister, Sansa’s hand draped over her belly; a bump so small yet so precious.

Arya had noticed this, immediately cutting her off; “…are you pregnant?” This sudden outburst both startled her sister and angered her simultaneously. Either way, Sansa hadn’t answered. Instead, she attempted to hide her face behind her chalice of water, her eyes downcast to avoid her sister. Arya gasped. “Seven hells, you are! Is it Podrick’s? It is isn’t it?! Wow. I mean… I never thought of Podrick Payne as a good lover. Is he… _skilled_?”

Sansa’s face flushed; “ARYA!”

“I haven’t lain with a man in _years_ so I must live vicariously through you. I need details, copious amount of details. Does he _really_ have a magic cock? Is _that_ why the whores called him Pod the Rod?” There was not enough chair or table to sink into to hide her reddening face and Arya continued on, making it worse. “Wait, have you told him about the fruit of his loins yet?”

Once she righted herself, Sansa cleared her throat. “Well, no… not yet…”

“Why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I'm wondering how Arya will feel about being an aunt :) This should be _fun_ in a lot of different ways.


	14. The Game; part the first - Under Duress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Peace doesn’t deny difficulty, but it has an inner calm and quietness even while enduring the difficulty.”_  
>  ― Glenn C. Stewart
> 
> In which Tyrion knows Podrick's secret...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last few chapters had Jaime&Podrick and Brienne&Podrick so I was desperately wanting to include a chapter with Tyrion&Podrick. I think about halfway through writing this one, I realized these characters _know_ , or have strong ideas, about Podrick's feelings for Sansa. I also concluded that it might not be such a bad idea to include interactions with them prior to The Battle of King's Landing, especially if I'm saying they've had feelings for each other for many years so... be prepared for _more_ flashbacks including them ^_^

The Tower of the Hand not only served as residence for the Hand of the King – or Queen – but also the some of his household. Some other rooms included a dining room, the Hand’s study, bed compartments, and then there were attaching passageways and stairways.

The private chamber, while not as large as the king’s, hung décor of Myrish rugs, woven tapestries, and a golden-tinted round window. Inside the bed chamber was a canopied bed and candleholders on the walls. Secreted in the hearth was a small door that opened into a passageway. From that door were two hundred and thirty steps leading down to the cavity of dragon mosaic.

The Small Hall, in disparity to the Great Hall, was a long room with high-vaulted ceiling. There were support tables and huge stilted doors.

While Jaime was away, Tyrion utilized his brother’s solar. Podrick had been beckoned there later that evening, not entirely understanding what for, but did so obediently. He knocked upon his arrival.

 _Come_ , he heard, and inside he went; “You asked for me, my Lord?”

“Oh, yes,” squinting up, Tyrion replaced his quill. “Don’t just stand there gawking in the doorway. Come in… and shut the door behind you.” He folded up the parchment and sealed it with wax. Set it aside, he gestured to the empty chair at the other end of the table.

Just as Podrick had pulled the chair out to sit down, he heard Tyrion shout _boy!_ and from the corner of his left eye came Cassian, precariously walking towards them with a decanter of wine stringently sandwiched between his two hands.

Tyrion reached for two wine goblets he had already laid out, pushing one of them towards Podrick. Each glass was filled adequately. A little of it spilled on the back of Podrick’s hand. Cassian immediately became flustered and began apologizing. Podrick brushed it off as a simple accident. He was reminded of the time he did the same thing when pouring wine for Olenna Tyrell. He took her barbs in strides but it still scared him. He wasn’t about to start chastising the boy for a mistake.

As Podrick reached for a cloth to clean himself up, Tyrion handed Cassian a folded piece of parchment with a waxed seal of the Hand of the King. He didn’t hear the instructions given but he likely wasn’t meant to so he banished the thought from his mind. Before Cassian walked off, the pair flashed a smile at each other, recalling the previous week in the training yard.

Assured that the boy had left, Tyrion fixed his stare across the table; “From what I hear, that boy owes you a great deal.” To say he felt an uplifting sense of pride for his former squire would be an understatement. Podrick exemplified the very cred of a _true_ knight; it would always be something to be proud of.

“I did nothing a normal knight would not have done,” he replied, far too modestly for his own good, but that was Podrick though; never enjoying to boost about himself in anyway or any accomplishments or praises he received, even if they were rightly so.

Tyrion shook his head, scoffing. “You never give yourself enough credit.”

“A knight doesn’t do great things for the sake of glory and recognition,” he recited, “he does so because it’s the right thing to do. Cassian was in trouble. He’s an innocent child. I wouldn’t have been who I am if I didn’t defend him.”

“That’s what I like about you, Pod. Loyal to a fault. I’ve said it before,” he smiled, a genuine smile, “you are the most loyal squire I have ever known, and now a knight. A title justly earned.”

Podrick nodded; mayhap his cheeks flushed.

Tyrion cleared his throat. “Now, if my memory is accurate, we have a drinking game to finish..” He practically heard Podrick’s eyes rolling. “And don’t give me that look. We are doing this.”

“I thought we _had_ finished it?” Podrick found brief distraction by staring at his wine chalice. “I remember… “ and then he added, “…I remember it coming to a screeching halt after—” Tyrion cut him off.

“Yes, yes… I may have been drunk, but I _do_ remember _that_.” It wasn’t his proudest of moments; most of his stupid ass comments usually came out of his mouth when he was drunk. But something about that whole incident still bothered him. “I know she didn’t drink despite evidence to the contrary…”

“The game was over by that point.”

“…but _you_ did.” Something in Tyrion’s eyes had lit up, like he was a giddy teenager learning the dirtiest of family secrets. “Were _you_ being truthful with me?” He knew Podrick knew what he was referencing.

________

_Once he settled following his drink, Tyrion eyed Brienne oh-so-suspiciously. His gaze did, on occasion, do some wandering – first to Jaime, and then to Podrick, and back to Brienne. In that span of only seconds, he caught just the slightly share of looks between his brother and newly minted knight._

_Finally, he got it!_

_Sitting up ram-rod straight, Tyrion stated, “You’ve never been in love.”_

_Despite the rustling of noise, there was silence amongst the four of them. Brienne’s cheerful face sulked into a frown while Jaime felt himself getting hot under the collar._

_While Jaime, Brienne, and Tyrion seemed locked into an uneasy stare, Podrick glanced down at his wine goblet with an equally morose feeling. Truth is, he has been. He still was. But he couldn’t share that with anyone, least of all the man who proposed this game in the first place._

_There was a time in which Sansa Stark barely acknowledged his existence save for the occasional word here and there. This changed as they grew older and become more worldly experienced._

_It started off as just a crush. An innocent, childlike crush. That soon took on a whole deeper implication. He assumed it might have just been a kind of love one would feel for something they admired and respected. Though he certainly did just that, Podrick realized the kind of love he felt for Sansa took on a different perspective._

_This was his reasons for drinking. Yes, he’s been in love. No, he couldn’t be honest about it._

________

Shaking his head, Podrick moved to stand up. “I won’t answer that…”

Tyrion whined, seeing that his former squire was about to leave. “You have to tell me something!” He cleared his throat, then, asked, “Did you drink because you noticed Ser Brienne wasn’t or are you actually hiding something I don’t know about? Don’t lie to me, Podrick. I’ll know when you’re lying.”

Podrick decidedly changed his mind about this game.

Sitting back down, he fixed Tyrion with a stare; “Drink.”

And so he did.

Tyrion seemed rather surprised; though he wanted to always assume that Podrick was truthful, a part of him also doubted the young man’s sincerity here. There _was_ something the young knight was hiding. There had to be. It bothered Tyrion that he didn’t know what it was.

“So…” he began, taking his eyes off his wine glass, “…why _did_ you drink then if you were obviously being misleading? We both knew it wasn’t true.”

Podrick sighed and refilled his glass, immediately taking a sip before answering. “I don’t think it would be appropriate if I was honest.” Sometimes secrets were best kept hidden.

“Does _she_ know at least? You can tell me that!” When the young knight remained mute, Tyrion just assumed the answer for himself. He started feeling quite bad for the lad. “Pod, I’m sorry. Truly. Love—it’s a complicated thing isn’t it? You find someone to give your heart to and it almost never turns out the way you wanted… “ He flashed the young knight a brief, somber smile.

Tyrion knew the implications of his comment to Brienne when he said it. But at that same moment, Tysha’s face had come to mind. He never forgot her face, even though she probably had forgotten all about him—if she was still living, that is. After being gang-raped by Tywin’s guards, given one silver coin for each man who had her, she was sent on her way and Tyrion never saw her again.

When he considered the fact his former squire might _actually_ be in love with someone, he didn’t think of it as something to be mocked. What bothered him is knowing that Podrick never said anything. And taking into account the scores of people who died that evening, he would have been right to assume the woman the young knight was in love with had perished.

If only that _were_ true… because Tyrion had seen the way Sansa Stark reacted the moment Podrick came bursting through those doors and how Podrick responded when arms were thrown around him. There was no denying what he had seen, even if he was mute about it during their game. To this day, Tyrion couldn’t explain why he didn’t call Podrick’s bluff.

Tyrion polished off what remained in his goblet then refilled the glass to near the top, sipping from it before any could spill out over the lip. “Where did you go then?”

“Go?” Podrick looked confused. “You mean after the game? I returned to the men-at-arms quarters.”

Somewhat dismayed, Tyrion asked, “Alone?”

Podrick’s left brow jumped. “Yes, alone.” _Well, at first, yes, but then…_

He raised the wine chalice to hips lips, his eyes downcast. In doing so, he avoided Tyrion’s stare, the all-knowing stare of his.

_________

_The men-at-arms quarters were nothing spectacular. Two terraced dwellings in perfect parallel form from each other sitting right outside the gates._

_Shortly after escorting the scullery maids from the great hall, Podrick bid them a good evening and swiftly returned to his quarters to sleep off his stupor. He didn’t have the luxury of a single living space but shared it with two others; one who snored and the other who was fond of talking in his sleep. He couldn’t criticize. The quarters were warm enough, which meant he didn’t have to worry about freezing during the night. And Lady Sansa was more than fair in giving him a room with the other soldiers._

_As it turned out, both of his quarter mates had been among those killed in the battle. He didn’t know them very well but they seemed like good folk. Both originated from a small village at the border between the Northern and Southron kingdoms. Both the youngest in the families. One of them had two older brothers. The other had an older sister. Both of their mothers died at a young age. It seemed so tragic they should join these women in death when they were not much older than Podrick was._

_The moment the door swung open, he proceeded to strip himself bare of his clothing – or tried to, anyway; the wounds inflicted on him, while stitched and patched up, still bore the reminder of their cause. Any sort of jostling caused him discomfort. Podrick sucked on his bottom lip, managing through the aches and pains._

_He barely finished relieving himself of the pleaded armor of his uniform when someone came knocking. At first he thought it might have been Ser Brienne, calling on him for service, but then he remembered that she had wandered off to her own quarters; Ser Jaime trailed behind her. If he hurt her—well, Podrick could threaten but he knew he could never hope to take on a trained knight. He could try though._

_The person at his door was not the newly-minted knight he assumed… but the Lady of Winterfell herself, Sansa Stark. Shock and embarrassment registered simultaneously as he realized he was not in a presentable shape for such a surprise visit._

_Podrick’s face felt red-hot; “My lady! T-This is a most un-unexpected visit. I, um… I am not properly presentable. I, I apologize… “ Whenever he became flustered, he would always ramble in incoherent sentences._

_“Oh, it is quite alright,” she stated. “I know the hour is late.”_

**_She must need something_** , _he thought. “If you give me just a moment, my lady—” Sansa silenced him._

_“You are fine, Podrick. I don’t need any further services tonight.” She seemed mildly amused when he ceased appearing so rushed. “Actually, I was… hoping we could speak? I’m not… interrupting anything am I?” Sansa may have been preoccupied talking to Sandor Clegane, but she didn’t fail to notice the way Podrick slinked out of the Great Hall with a scullery maid on each arm._

_Podrick face reddened; when he left, he hadn’t been aware someone had seen him leaving the Hall with those two women. “Oh… n-no. You’re not.” A wintry chill brushed through. Sansa shivered beneath her robes. “It… It is quite cold out, my lady. W-would you come in…? Warm yourself by the fire…” He wasn’t thinking of the implications in his actions; he saw someone in need, and so he acted._

__________

Podrick seemed wholly wrapped up in his thoughts, completely abandoned in his drink. He hadn’t meant for his mind to wander as it did. He hadn’t meant to be here in the first place; he was commanded. Somehow it transformed into excavating recollections nearly four years gone. Not that he minded much; that night was _special_ , for many reasons. No one had known. No one would ever know. Even with Tyrion topping off his wine glass, the drink wouldn’t lower his inhibitions _that_ much.

He would sporadically look in the direction of the door and then speculate just how long this game was intended to be lasting for. It wasn’t that he was _bored_ ; Podrick just knew how out of hand these games could get. And he was already beginning to suspect that Tyrion had ulterior motives.

Tyrion was a highly intelligent man, using that sharp intellect as means to make up for the dwarfism that set him apart from his siblings as well as others who would initially look down on him. He prided himself on ability to read people – stating that he did so as easily as he does with books – and many times has used that to his advantage, getting the experienced people like Lifflefinger, Pycelle, and even his own sister, Cersei.

Podrick seemed unsure if Tyrion was reading him just then. There were a lot of things the young knight didn’t talk about—not even with Brienne. To save face and to guard his heart, Podrick tried projecting a sense of calm the more they delved deeper into this drinking game.

__________

_She seemed slightly hesitant but appreciated his kind gesture. Once she was inside and the door shut, she did feel a lot better. Podrick walked over to the fire place and tossed two more logs into the hearth then grabbed the fire poker, prodding at the flames until they kissed the open air. He replaced the poker once he seemed satisfied enough with the intensity of the heat._

_As he stood, Podrick offered her a drink. She obliged. He snatched up two wine chalices from the mantle and filled them both; handing her one and hugging the second to him._

_Taking her glass, she nodded her thanks, then; “Do you believe Queen Daenerys has every intention of being a great monarch when she takes back the Iron Throne?” While a part of her wanted to believe in Daenerys, another kept screaming at her that it wasn’t the smartest or wisest of choices. She had dealt with tyrannical rulers before; she prayed the dragon queen would be different._

_“Admittedly, I don’t know her as well as I should. I don’t know what kind of person she is, what kind of ruler she would be… but I have faith she’ll be a good one.” Podrick picked up on the tone in her voice, the hesitation. “Do you not believe so?”_

_“Since I was a child of ten and three, I have dealt with more than my fair share of unjust rulers. Joffrey, Ramsey… now Cersei. They have all taken something from me I can never get back. I have become so pessimistic and skeptical of anyone.”_

_“Having doubts isn’t necessarily a bad thing. That doesn’t make you pessimistic, that makes you vigilant.”_

_Sighing, she added, “Without her help, we would all be dead right now. I know I gave Jon a lot of grief earlier but I understand now…”_

_She started searching, searching for something—she didn’t know what, exactly—until she found a spot on the floor and just fixated at it. The pointer finger of her right hand began rubbing along the edge of her glass. She seemed distracted. Her mind had wandered._

_Noticing the way Sansa suddenly drifted from topic, Podrick closed some more distance between them. Her silence had worried him. But from that silence, he could swear he heard signs of tears._

_He started to realize something just then; “My lady, you didn’t come here just to ask me about the dragon queen_ did _you?” But instead of getting an answer, she remained silent. Podrick frowned, concern growing on his face. “M-my lady, are you alright?“ He reached a hand out for her, but then recoiled._

_Sansa lifted her head again, despite the fact that the tears in her eyes were as plain as day; “That is the second time you have saved my life,” she mentioned, denoting to the preceding night as the second time when he gallantly risked his life for hers, nearly losing his own. “You always give yourself so selflessly for others, never expecting anything in return.”_

_“Yes… well… “_

_Podrick had been looking at his feet, never minding the reality of Sansa drawing nearer to him, until he just so happened to glance up—and there she was. He promptly became conscious of his own heartbeat. The distance between them now was not so wide._

_The Lady of Winterfell was smiling. “Even as children, you were constantly affording me justification to smile, even on occasions when I didn’t believe I could.” She drew closer. “You have always been kind towards me even when I haven’t shown you the same kindness in return…” …and closer._

_“You are forgiven, my lady,” he said earnestly._

_Whilst staring into his eyes—gods, she could get lost in those large brown pools—Sansa was feeling despondent about his treatment the more she thought of it. “You came into my life at just the right time… when I needed it the most… and you continued to impress me… “ Eventually, she was close enough that only inches separated them. He was breathing hard. She felt every exhale against her flesh._

_“You are someone worth protecting.”_

_She could have cried at his revelation._

_Podrick’s body nearly shuttered in response when she reached for him. At first, it was her delicate fingers that traced lines over his neck, and then it was her hand that rested on his chest._

_What finally did him in was the touch of her lips against his._


	15. The Game; part the second - Not So Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”_  
>  ― Roald Dahl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started writing this story, I wasn't intending it to be longer than a chapter or two. But then it took off like wildfire so I thought "Sure, why the hell not?". I started planning out what each chapter would look like, what each tone would sound like. And before I knew what had happened, this story was slowly taking on a life of its own. I think it was GRRM who once said that he lets the characters write themselves? That's pretty much what happened here. 
> 
> Somewhere along the lines, I ended up in a conversation with someone on Discord who convinced me I should explore more of Podrick and Sansa's time in Winterfell. Since I was incorporating snippets of that anyway, I figured more of it couldn't hurt. 
> 
> .... and then _this_ happened, lol. I remain bashfully unapologetic. Oh and there will probably be more smut in the future for all those thirsty beeches out there

_It was unusual to him when someone made the first move. Even more so when that person doing so was Sansa Stark. The moment her lips pressed to his, Podrick was shook. He continuously speculated what kissing her would be like; the mix of desire and eagerness sprinkled with passion. But he was incredibly shy. He always wondered quietly to himself, never taking that extra step to find out for sure._

_His heart was racing as she strengthened her kiss, stepping closer into him— **moaning** —hands exploring all over his chest and shoulders. His cheeks bolstered in color. This tense, quivering feeling began to fill his belly. How should he be reacting? He was surprised, stunned—his limbs weren’t responding to command. His eyes were wide-ranging; those razor-sharp, earthy brown eyes, deep-rooted in intense emotion. He felt wholly and entirely paralyzed. _

_The initial touch of her lips was gentle, delicate, like a butterfly’s wings. It just long enough to where he could inhale the scent of her. She kept battling with the voluptuous feeling of his mouth before coming back into herself, suddenly and unexpectedly pulling back._

_Shocked at her own actions, Sansa cupped a hand to her mouth; “Wow. Podrick… I, I didn’t mean to be so forward there. Forgive me,” she was sputtering, not quite understanding where this had come from._

_“Oh, well, you’re f-fine… “ Truth be told, he was still staggering from what just happened. The taste of her lips, the sweet decadence of her kiss, still lingered with him. “I didn’t mean **not** to act. You just… surprised me. I, I actually kind of… enjoyed it.”_

_“Really? I never **genuinely** kissed someone before.” She remembered when Joffrey came to her once, apologizing for his behavior, and granting her with her very first kiss ever. She might have thought she enjoyed it. On some level, she did. But Sansa did taste his lips; not the way she tasted Podrick’s. “Mayhap… I can do so again?”_

_“Y-Yes,” he agreed, “I would enjoy that.”_

_Taking his wine chalice and her own, Sansa set them both aside on the table. When next she looked at him, she did so with expectancy yet felt nervous all at once._

__________

Tyrion reached the bottom of his goblet—and the beginning of his disappointment. This was a conversation that require copious amounts of alcohol. He wasted no time in refilling the chalice and even topped Podrick off, even if the young lad had barely touched his wine. Tyrion hadn’t waited until the wine container was sitting safely on the table; he started slurping at the beverage immediately.

When next he stared across the table at his former squire, he did so with such a scrutinized view that Podrick’s heartrate instantly spiked. The young knight suddenly felt an intense amount of pressure as though he were being judged prior to some test to which he would never know the answers.

Podrick’s eyes searched for anything _but_ Tyrion’s. On some level, he probably already knew. Maybe he just had an inclination. The man was too smart for his own good sometimes. Podrick would only be kidding himself if he thought he could keep going without _someone_ finding out; might as well being Tyrion. He didn’t feel shame in what happened with Sansa.

__________

_The second of the two kisses began slowly. Nothing she wasn’t entirely ready for. Just lightly pressing her lips against his. She closed her eyes as a way to enhance the tenderness, focusing less on his face and more on the way his mouth was moving as she tried to mimic his motions. She allowed the kiss to linger before she sluggishly drew her lips away but kept them close enough that they were still nearly touching._

_When they came together again, Sansa flattened her lips tighter against his, hungerly pushing back, as if kissing him was the most important thing in her life. Feeling audacious enough, her mouth parted more, her tongue pushed past his lips to the moist cavern within. His tongue met with hers and they started to dance. It was tranquil, sizzling and breathy._

_Podrick seemed less focused on anything else and more so on the way her lips felt. While surprised by the way her tongue danced in his mouth, he relished it all the same. He heighted the intensity of the kiss by moving his hands along Sansa’s body. There couldn’t have been anything better than this expression of passion. Their semi-closed mouth kiss gradually varied in openness and speed. He thought their first kiss might be a little weird but that sense of awkwardness had worn away, creating a path for something beyond informal._

_After what felt like an appropriate passage of time, Podrick dared something more sensually aggressive. He started gently biting her bottom lip, permitting his teeth to graze her lip as he gradually pulled away. By the sounds she was making and the response of her body, he knew she was accepting of it. Podrick inched his head away, moving it down a ways to Sansa’s neck. He started off with a few simplistic kisses on her skin, gradually increasing the intensity of each one. He insouciantly started drawing circles with the tip of his tongue, feeling her pulse every time it would move beneath her flesh._

_Instead of just letting his arms dangle there at his sides, Podrick had embraced Sansa, jerking her closely to his body. Every exhaled breath felt like a surge of erotica. His fingers combed throughout her red hair, snaring themselves in tangles. They casually picked at her braids but didn’t start unfurling them. Random strands fell loose from those braids, some dangling over her face._

_Sansa abruptly stopped and Podrick looked distraught, believing he had done something wrong. His mouth took a downward turn, his eyes had widened, taking on a distressed, withering tone._

_Horrified at the thought of hurting her, he asked, “H-have I done s-something wrong? If this is too fast—" His chest was feeling tight and it grew tighter by the minute._

_Shaking her head, Sansa quelled his fears, “You haven’t done anything improper.” Steadying her breathing, she added, “I **want** you to see me, Podrick…” Her voice sounded shaky, almost hesitant, yet she knew this was what she wanted. _

_She started removing her clothing, layer by layer. It was much easier to remove than put on. It normally took no less than two people to get her dressed._

_Podrick’s face flushed a number of distinct hues of red as he observed each piece of clothing removed, all merging at her feet, his eyes immersing in it all. He felt a skin-tight stirring in his trousers. It was no secret to him that he caught himself thinking about her before, with a similar reaction—he had been ashamed by it **then**._

_When only her chemise remained, Sansa took a moment. This was the first time she had ever stripped herself naked for someone. She was nervous, but excited. The idea of sleeping with Podrick hadn’t scared her so much as the idea of knowing he had other women and was more experienced in pleasuring others, something she knew nothing about._

_She tugged at the laces holding up the chemise… then watched as the fabric pooled at her feet. Sansa stood there for a moment, allowing the realization of her nakedness to wash over her. She observed the way Podrick was staring at her. It wasn’t raw, carnal power she saw behind those eyes… but gentle longing and desire._

_He was smiling, completely entranced; “You’re beautiful.”_

_Sansa was smiling; never before had anyone complimented her so much. She truly felt loved just then. And he didn’t even have to try._

_After some time to bask in the sight before him, Podrick started removing his own clothing. They were silent as he did so; only his own breathing could rise up over the crackling of fire. He was delicate in his work. Very meticulous. The last thing he wanted to do was startle her._

_Getting down to his undershorts, Podrick stopped. Not for the reason that he was hesitant but the sudden feeling of having her hands touching him was a bit shocking._

Allow me _, her eyes were saying, wanting to be the one who exposed him._

_Sansa tugged and pulled at the strings keeping his undershorts tight. Once loosened, she pushed them down past his knees. Then she saw him. All of him. Her heart began to gallop inside her chest._

_They stared at each other for quite some time, marveling in the splendor of their naked bodies. He ventured to reach for her breasts, brushing his fingers between them. She felt this warm, tingling sensation that emanated somewhere deep inside her chest and spouted fire throughout her veins._

_Seeing her reaction, Podrick wondered aloud, “Should I take it from here?” She nodded; if he didn’t, she might lose her nerve._

_He lifted her from her feet and carried her to his bed, where he gently laid her down atop the wolf pelt laid out across it then cautiously positioned himself above her._

_She banished all thoughts that he was anyone other than a man who would treat her decently. Sansa knew that; she had no reason to doubt his heart. Podrick had proven himself time and time again. But she didn’t know what she should be expecting. Happiness maybe?_ _Would she quiver when their bodies touched? Would her obvious inexperience ward him off? Maybe she feared it would be similar to her flowering; chaotic, and messy._

_None of it ended up mattering. The moment hips lips enraptured hers, all previous ideals she had were gone. It was sweet and tender and—oh! Yes, this was something she could grow used to. Just the way he knew where to place his hands, how and where to kiss her to elicit a desperate moan from her throat, how she found herself craving much more._

_Her body seemingly receptive to his non-verbal commands, resulting in a deep groan, this one bubbling from her belly and rising through her chest. He dropped a hand to spot where her graceful neck met the gapping curvature of her bosom. He brushed a thumb over the arc of her right breast, seizing a breath in her chest. Just his touch had sent shivers coursing down her spine. Her blood was singing. Her nerves were on fire. Sansa realized that she was enjoying this._

_She wanted more; “I need to know what it feels like…to be truly and wholly loved.” Whatever anxieties she had before had not abandoned her. Sansa knew it was Podrick she wanted to feel between her legs._

_“I live to please you, my lady…” Reaching further down, he told hold of himself then positioned his cock inches from her moist center._

_He pressed his body flush against hers and drove himself between her thighs; slowly, gently, at first—his mouth captivating her moans – of pleasure? Hopefully so; he didn’t dare hurt her -- as she drew him inside, waiting as she relaxed and adjusted to his length—and then a little further until he was entirely buried within her folds, leaving her almost unbearably full._

_At first, she didn’t know how to respond appropriately; should she push herself further into it? Where should she put her hands? But then, body seemed to be taking on a life of its own. She molded herself to his physique, driving her mouth to make love to his, permitting entrance for his tongue, delighting in the sultry moan that escaped his lips, the kind that vibrated in the base of his throat._

_His movements began gradually, allowing for her to get accustomed to the sensation. Sansa arched her back, pushing her breasts against his bare chest, drawing a low growl from his throat. She fumbled with where and how to place her hands; his shoulders, against his spine, his rounded arse—giving it a gentle squeeze, groaning deep into his mouth. Podrick’s desire became more than obvious as he paid her delicate attention, taking special care of how he kept moving…inside her…becoming more well-adjusted and evoking deeper, guttural noises from her mouth._

_Her nails dragged across his skin, arousing a trembling moan that started somewhere deep within his core and bubbled quickly to his surface. She pressed her palms tight to his skin, whimpering lowly when his mouth no longer gave praise to hers. Instead, Podrick was kissing away from her mouth- curling his motions over her cheekbones, then down her jawline, and across her neck, suckling at the area where the artery that gushed her life force ran the full length of her neck and pulsated rapidly beneath the weight of his kisses. He paid her all sorts of tributes at that moment, and Sansa—gods be good—had somehow managed not come undone when he nipped at the nape of her neck. Her throat made some kind of yelp and Podrick wondered if he had hurt her; she assured him otherwise, and soon the pair had worked themselves into a consistent rhythm._

_His whole body rolled; the resulting action triggered a deeper, almost animalistic sound and he swallowed her moaning within his mouth, before raising himself slightly above her, yet never losing the momentum of the way he continuously rocked forwards, the way his cock throbbed and pulsed inside. Sansa gasped; her right hand found the curve of his hips, and the other settled on his shoulder, and she balanced against his arms, bent at the elbows. He cast his eyes downward, resting the brown hues on that space between her eyes. She was looking down as well, to where their hips were met, watching as he continued rolling himself into her and how receptive her body was. She watched because she feared might be doing something wrong, and he wouldn’t be pleased with any of this, and, oh gods, she was overthinking it._

_Podrick decelerated his movements, just for a moment, long enough to push a knuckle under her chin and lift it until she was meeting his eyes. “Just… relax. I’m more concerned about hurting you than you are about doing something wrong…” When he noticed her tears, he stopped. Frowning, he considering withdrawing. “What is it, my lady?”_

_“I… I don’t think I ever imagined about—”_

_He pressed a finger to her lips; he had a thought, one she might like. “Do you trust me?” There was no hesitation when she nodded. It might have been different for her years ago. Not so much now. Podrick rolled himself onto his back, dragging Sansa with him._

_Now as she perched atop him, she was recognizing that he was surrendering her all the power. She knew Podrick meant well—gods, he was so good to her—but having the feeling of being in command of how things would go was so… invigorating._

_Sansa could see all of his injuries from this angle. Injuries that would soon just be more scars. She thumbed over the one on his shoulder than the one across his chest—_ how close that one had been _, she pondered, knowing that it could have easily been fatal. She thought… she wanted to… then she wondered—Sansa rested her hand there on his chest._

_Her mind had wandered. She was in the Great Hall again… with rows and rows of injured. Amongst them were hundreds of her own men. Many of them from House Arryn. But even then, there was only one person she had been searching for. And when she found him, she could have cried. Sansa remembered what it was like. How she felt. Standing above him, watching him breathing—in and out, in and out; so calm—and the hours she would have spent with him if only she could._

_This was the first time she actually felt his heart beating. If she never had a reason not to doubt his honesty, she knew she could trust that. It_ _was_ _beating without mercy or care; like a great beast wandering the plans or the collective sound of hooves drumming against the cold ground. Sansa instantly knew this would be her favorite feeling in the entire world._

_Leisurely, her hands started reaching until her fingers were entwined with his. Being in total control meant complete freedom to do what she wanted… however, she wanted it. She pushed his hands higher until his arms were stretched above his head. She leaned in. Their faces were nearly touching. That smile of his evoked such a confidence she didn’t ever think she would find again. And then, gradually, Sansa started shifting her hips. She did so again and again and again, riding it out on the top of him instead of beneath him._

_Realizing her self-confidence, she sat back further with a slight spring to how she moved. It jostled the way he nestled inside her, erupting such a raucous moan from his throat… and hers._ _She was breathing hard, open-mouthed, gasping; her core tingled furiously with heat. She felt slick against his cock, and a tight knot tugged unceremoniously pulled in her belly._

_Never having known what having an orgasm was meant to have felt like, Sansa was not entirely prepared when she finally reached her peak. Podrick thrusted thrice upwards and her core spasmed against him. Pleasure waves radiated pulsing beats in an outward spiral of an explosion. He held back, wanting her to experience an orgasm first. There was no denying how close he was to his own. Such a taunt strain against her walls. Podrick slipped himself from her body with a slippery plop. Reaching for his shaft, he gave it a few pumps before he finished._

_Sansa moved off as he reached for something to clean himself off. While she normally possessed the ability to be so vocal and charismatic about politics, there was not a single word she could find in her vocabulary to accurately describe what just happened._

_________

Downcasting his eyes, he inquired, “How long have you known?” He had no regrets. In fact, he was impressed with himself that he managed to keep such a secret all these years.

“ _Before_ or _after_ you started sleeping with her?” His response-slash-question had been delivered in such a deadpan manner that someone might question if he was furious with Podrick and simply trying to keep his temper at bay.

Podrick’s face flushed. “Does it matter?”

“Hm, no. I suppose it doesn’t.” After another sip, Tyrion cleared his throat. “If you were expecting me to be irate with you, you might be equally shocked to realize that I’m not.”

“You aren’t?” This was surprising.

Tyrion raised his left brow; it arched slightly. “Should I be?” This stare of his… he kept it going for some time but he could tell such an analyzed glower could give Podrick the wrong impression.

After being summoned to his father’s chambers, Tyrion had been informed of Tywin’s plans to marry him off to Sansa in an effort to secure a foothold in the North. She would be heir to Winterfell after his defeat of Robb Stark. He was reluctant to consider it. He even emphasizing the cruelty behind marrying Sansa when only recently, it was Joffrey who had been betrothed to the girl. The boy was crude in his treatment, torturing her every chance he had gotten. Tyrion wasn’t keen on the concept of matrimony with her.

Podrick was with Tyrion that day. He was the first one to know outside of Tywin, Cersei, and of course Tyrion himself. He had also been there when they made the long walk to Sansa’s quarters in the Red Keep. They scarcely spoke few words to each other at the time but Podrick will never forget the way her charmingly timid cerulean eyes briefly searched his face.

This couldn’t have been what Tyrion was referring to, though. He must have been referring to much later. It occurred to him that. Oh! Now Podrick realized. It must have been during Winterfell in which Tyrion caught onto the growing affections between his former squire and _darling_ wife.

After a fashion, he broke into a wide smile, and then a laugh. “My boy…what Sansa and I had was a sham marriage at best. Though we bonded and eventually developed a mutual respect for one another, there was never any romantic love. I refused to bed her on our wedding night and wouldn’t do so unless _she_ wanted to. As it turns out, she never did. When I say I am not angry at you, I mean that. Sansa ought to have someone who could love her and treat her well. I could think of no one greater.”

Tyrion raised his glass as if making a toast—which was immediately followed by a chug of wine.

A huge relief lifted from Podrick’s chest. It had been a secret he had been holding in for a long time. Much too long for his liking. He didn’t enjoy keeping secrets from anyone… least of all Tyrion.

“Well… “ Sitting back, Tyrion smacked his lips together. “I must say… this certainly explains why you have been so woeful these days.”

Shifting in his seat, Podrick asked, “You don’t think—” But he had been interrupted.

“—that my brother and goodsister know? Yeah.” Tyrion nodded, only further emphasizing his point. Jaime and Brienne knew Podrick almost as well as he did; there wasn’t really anything he could get past them.


	16. There Be Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“If you accept life in all its fullness and ambiguity, it's not complicated; it's only complicated if you don't accept it.”_  
>  ― Marty Rubin

_Sansa felt as though she was skyrocketing and clambering higher by the minute. It was difficult to put to thought the pleasure pulsing throughout her body. But it was definitely intense. And primal. And exceedingly genuine. And an ecstasy she not ever intended to come down from. Her breathing felt as she did – visceral, disorderly; unhinged. Like an untamed savage creature. Her body was slick with sweat and heat and sex. Her heart was galloping within her ribcage, thrashing with this uncontrollable urge._

_And she listened to Podrick’s breath—equally profound and reckless. When she finally did find the motivation to peel her eyes away from the ceiling, Sansa shifted herself to look at him and spent the next several minutes admiring the man laying naked next to her._

_She never felt so satisfied by anything before in her life. For a moment, she had actually forgotten there was still a war out there to fight. All she focused on for the time being was Podrick; this peaceful and gentle and strong man who had just made her fail to remember the sound of her own name. He didn’t actually look at her again until she reached out to touch him and then when he did look, it was his eyes that captured her. Such a deep intoxication that bubbled with comfort._

_When Sansa managed to figure out words again, she only managed one; “Again. I need to do that again.” He had to blink to make sure he was hearing her correctly but she knew she hadn’t stuttered. It was the first time in years she felt loved—truly loved—and she’d give anything to hold onto that feeling._

_Her hand wandered. It dipped down… further… further… and then she took him, all of him. He gasped. The feel of her hand grasping him hadn’t startled him but the things that hand started doing—he could come undone again right there._

_She mounted him then guided him to fill her again. She brought herself down to the very hilt of cock until every inch of him was buried deep within her._

_They arrived at their perspective climaxes in a shorter time than before._

_Afterward, Sansa cuddled up close and cradled her head against his chest, where she could listen to his heartbeat, relishing each and every beat, self-assured of its serenity, completely soothed by the singsong drumming in her head._

_Her other hand snaked across Podrick’s torso until his fingers laced together with hers. His head only moved a second so he could dip his lips to her forehead, and then it settled again, and she was content pillowing her head on his broad chest. His other hand reached over so he could casually brush the hair from her face so it wasn’t covering her eyes as much. He loved her eyes; such a gorgeous shade of cerulean blue._

_Podrick wondered aloud; “Has no one ever complimented your eyes before?” It was the first thing he noticed about her when they first met, but he was young then – he was still young, but just a teenager then – and more reticent than now. Whatever thoughts he had then were almost always dismissed immediately._

_“I do not believe so,” she responded, her face adopting a shade of red, “You would be the first.” Unlike her siblings who inherited a majority of her father’s looks, Sansa had every bit of her mother’s Tully coloring. Rickon’s hair had been a tad reddish brown but it was her who had the striking red locks._

_He pressed his lips to her forehead. “You deserve a lot more.” And he meant that. Ever since he first laid eyes on her, he always thought she deserved so much more than life had given her._

_“You think so?” She shifted the position of her body, turning herself onto her left side. Sansa made a fist, jutting it under her jaw, propping her elbow against the bed, then bore weight on it. “You are the first person in my life to ever say that. I was constantly told what was expected of me, not what I deserved. I went along with it because it is what I wanted… until the reality of it changed my entire perspective.”_

_Podrick thumbed his fingers alongside her forearm. “The truth of nobility, so it seems. We are born into privilege and with that comes specific obligations.”_

_“I will wager your family had very different ideas for you.” He looked sad, momentarily; Sansa adopted a frown instead of a smile-- **had I said something wrong?** She wondered. “What is it?”_

_“I was three when my father went off to fight in the Greyjoy Rebellion. As a bannerman of House Lannister, he was bound by duty. He was killed in battle. I don’t remember much of him.”_

_Sansa pressed; “And what of your mother?”_

_“She abandoned me when I was four. Ran off with one of the cousins my father squired for. I ended up with Ser Cedric Payne, who treated me more like a servant than a relative. He died at the beginning of the War of the Five Kings.”_

_She frowned. “I’m so sorry, Podrick.”_

_“It’s nothing to be sorry for. I hardly remember what she even looked like. I used to wonder if I might ever see her again, if she even still thinks of me—but it’s all in the past. I can’t live there anymore.”_

_“That is a good attitude to have.” To not live in the past. If only she could forget just as easily. Except, it wasn’t so easy. Sansa could move on, someday, but there would always be demons. “What became of you after Ser Cedric was killed?”_

_“I attached myself to this hedge knight. His name was Ser Lorimer. He was part of Lord Leo Lefford’s troops and charged with protecting the baggage train. One night, he became very drunk and stole a ham from Lord Tywin’s personal stores. He shared some with me. I was very hungry so I took it without question. He was hanged for it when Lord Tywin found out but because of my family’s name, I was spared.”_

_“Is that how you ended up in King’s Landing?”_

_Podrick nodded. “As punishment, he sent me to squire for his son Tyrion. Lord Tyrion always treated me fairly and with great kindness. I owe a lot to him.”_

_A deep sigh settled within Sansa’s chest. A part of her was feeling a huge amount of guilt; she and Tyrion were married! He had cloaked her! There was a ceremony – albeit it an awkward and uncomfortable one – and everything. They never consummated this marriage, true, but that didn’t change the actuality that she was in bed with Podrick Payne._

_Still, there was a unique element of exhilaration to it. Knowing she shouldn’t be doing something but yet here she was precisely doing that. Changing positions yet again, Sansa only slightly inclined her head and, taking his hand in her own, kissed the back of his knuckles._

_“I have to ask you something,” she began, knowing what she was wanting to say but already doubting in her mind how it would play out. She could only hope for the best._

_Podrick turned his head a little, rolling his right shoulder. “Hm? You can ask me anything, my lady.”_

_“Let us keep this between us, alright? I know that seems egotistic of me to ask this of you but I have never had anything of mine that wasn’t stripped away at some point of my life. For once, I—I just want something I can hold onto. Something real.”_

_A secret that was just their own? There were many, many things that excited him about that, most of all because it involved Sansa and he had been infatuated with her for years. “As my lady commands.”_

_She smiled, quite wide, and pressed his lips with her own._

__________

The concept of divorce didn’t exist in Westeros; annulment did, though. It could be entreated from the hierarchy of the Faith of the Seven on the grounds of an unconsummated marriage, perhaps one of the two involved parties had already been married – bigamous marriages were forbidden – or the marriage was made under duress. While not uncommon for the daughters of a noble House to be pressured into matrimony, doing so whilst the woman was made a hostage against the wishes of her family were considered reasonable enough grounds for annulment.

Sansa had been made prisoner to the Lannisters and forced to marry Tyrion. Since the marriage had never been consummated, it would have been within her right to request an annulment. Nullifying her marriage to Tyrion meant they were both free to pursue other interests. As far as she knew, there were no prospects for the youngest Lannister.

There were _definitely_ none for her. None she invited, anyway. Political marriages had always been matters of state, commonplace in nobility, in order broker an alliance between the two families, thus obligating each other to provide military aid in case of conflicts. Sitting on the desk in her solar was a parchment from House Ryswell; the wax seal broken.

House Ryswell was a vassal house of the North, swearing fealty to House Stark. They ruled over the Rills, a region just west of the Barrowlands. The letter was from Lord Rodrick. It spoke of a marriage alliance between his middle son, Rickard, and Sansa. But she was hesitant. For a number of reasons. The Ryswells, much like the Dustins, were the first to declare for House Bolton when Roose Bolton was named Warden of the North. They were actually among the few true vassal houses that the Boltons has. The loyalties of some of these northern Lords wavered enough for Sansa to not be completely trustful of anyone.

That brought her to her second reason: Podrick. There were few things Sansa felt she could be sure about. She very much doubted that Lord Rodrick would entertain the idea of betrothing his son off to a woman with child by someone else—even if that woman so happened to be Queen of the North. To be honest, Sansa didn’t really cater to the idea much either. This was why the letter sat there untouched; she didn’t want Rickard Ryswell.

__________

_Something startled her awake. She thought it might have been Podrick shifting positions but upon closer examination, he was still asleep, half-buried beneath the wolf pelts and other furs. Sansa laid up in bed observing him—the way his chest moved up and down when he breathed, that cute way the wisps of hair of his forehead swayed on his skin. She leaned in close and pressed a light kiss to the side of his face then very quietly climbed over him, being cautious enough not to wake him up._

_Sansa grabbed up her clothing, finding bits and pits strewned all about the floor—a pair of underpants in one corner, her chemise by the edge of the bedframe, a surcote draped over a chair by the table. She didn’t bother fitting into every pair of clothing – that would take too much effort – so instead slipped into the basics. The braids in her hair had become askew so she didn’t bother fixing them up; all she did was wet down her fingers and quickly brush them over her tangles._

_She took note of the dying fire so she tossed on another log to keep the flames going. Before slipping out, Sansa took one last look at Podrick. Ideally, she would find pleasure in staying the night, waking up next to him in the morning – maybe even surprising him with a morning romp – but if she wanted to maintain the illusion of secrecy, she should slip back to her quarters now before the drink wore off and the castle was bustling again._

_The wintry air was a nice contrast compared to the warm fire she spent hours in front of. Still, she wanted to hurry back to her quarters before the cold got to be **too** much for her. Luckily, Sansa knew her way around enough to avoid people who might otherwise still be awake. She managed to reach her quarters just fine yet was surprised to discover the person waiting for her on the opposite side of the door. _

_Seated on her sister’s bed, Arya’s legs dangled just over the edge; “I need to talk to you.” She knew this was sudden and she probably would have put this off until the morning but… this was something she couldn’t leave for another day._

_“Oh, um—” Sansa was understandably startled, “…now?”_

_Arya nodded. “Yes. Now.” She pushed herself off the bed. “I… I need some advice and you were the only person I could think of to find. I knew I couldn’t talk to anyone else—not Bran, not Jon…”_

_“Talk to me about me what?”_

_She took a moment, distracting herself by scratching at her arm. Then she sighed, hesitant to say anything but in the end, she forced it out. “I slept with Gendry,” there was a pause, in which Arya watched her sister’s expression change almost instantaneously, “yeah… the night before the White Walkers attacked. I was practicing my archery when he delivered a weapon to me that I asked him to make. I… asked him about Melisandre. He told me about his parentage. I asked how many girls he had been with. At first he lied and said he didn’t remember but then he told me. Then I… well, I told him I wanted to know what physical love felt like before we died.”_

_“Gendry seems like a good man. Well, I suppose it’s Lord Gendry Baratheon now isn’t?”_

_Arya agreed. “I’ve known him for a while now. He’s never been anything but sweet and kind towards me…” This was the moment she hesitated because she knew what was coming next. “He proposed to me tonight. He told me he loved me and he wanted me to be his wife.”_

_“Wow. That is amazing to hear, Arya. I believe congratulations are in order.” Sansa wanted to be happy for her sister, she did, but the moment she started acting like it, she saw Arya’s expression turn. It gave her the worst sort of stomach ache. “… or not. You didn’t say yes did you?”_

_Shaking her head, Arya answered, “I couldn’t. I mean, part of me wanted to… I guess… but—come now, Sansa! You know I was never destined to be a lady. I was never meant to wear pretty dresses, to-to marry lords and produce heirs, or whatever you wish to call it. That’s the life **you** wanted! Then he comes along and—” She was silenced._

_“—and you fell in love with him.”_

_________

Sansa must not have realized it when her sister walked in. Too focused on other things. Her head was such a jumbled mess of thoughts lately that she could never seem to settle on just one.

It was Arya who broke the silence; “I was wondering where you’d gone.”

There had been a dinner in the Great Hall that evening. A small welcoming home, of sorts—for Arya. But Sansa had excused herself quite early. She might have been the only one to notice, but Arya was worried. She thought it might have been morning sickness that forced her sister to leave on such sort notice. But then Sansa never returned. So she went off after her sister.

When Sansa didn’t respond, Arya shut the door behind her and walked over. She just about reached out for her sister’s shoulder when something on the desk caught her eye: the letter with the broken seal—House Ryswell’s seal. She was nosy enough to unfold it and read what it said.

After which, Arya looked at Sansa, asking, “A marriage proposal from House Ryswell? Interesting. Father always liked Lord Rodrick. I haven’t seen Rickard in a long time but I bet he’s handsome.” She placed the letter on the desk again.

“I wouldn’t know,” countered Sansa, her voice full of emotion. The reason she left? The letter. Maester Wolkan gave it to her hours before and it was all she could think about. She couldn’t even allow herself to enjoy a welcoming party and spend time with a sister she hadn’t seen in years. Sansa inclined her head, gesturing towards the letter. “That arrived earlier today.”

“Are you going to accept?”

She didn’t shake her head, she didn’t nod. All she managed was, “A marriage to Lord Rodrick’s son _would_ be a good match. Lord Manderly is concerned these lords don’t take me as seriously as they should and maybe having a husband would secure my rule over the north…” Sansa picked at her nails, a habit she never used to do before. This pregnancy was causing all kinds of weird habits lately.

Arya felt the hesitation in her sister’s voice. “That doesn’t sound like the same person who fought for northern independence and swore off marriage…” Sansa had started looking upset about half-way through, prompting Arya to throw on a genuine display of emotion.

“You’re right. I’m not sounding much like myself these days…” Sulking, Sansa walked off from the window, eventually plopping down onto a dark lilac chaise longue. She hardly noticed when Arya had joined her there. Her right hand dropped to the small bump in her belly. She stroked it with her thumb. “Did you know that Maester Wolkan offered me a chance to terminate?” When faced with everything now, she sometimes asked herself if she made the right choice… and then reprimanded herself for even thinking that. 

This confession came as a bit of a shock. “What persuaded you to change your mind?” Never having faced the situation herself, Arya was curious how someone could ever choose one over the other. But then, she never saw herself as the motherly type either so she probably wouldn’t ever know.

“Nothing persuaded me,” she responded, which confused her sister, so she explained, “When I knew I was with child, my mind was already made up.” Sansa fixated on her baby bump; no amount of words that could illustrate the euphoria she got from caressing it. Just when she reached that moment of imagining holding that babe in her arms, she frowned—without Podrick, it didn’t actually mean anything.

Arya rubbed circles between her sister’s shoulder blades, flexing her fingers to work out the knots of anxiety and depression.

She couldn’t pretend to know what Sansa was feeling; not with this.

__________

_~~King Jon~~ _

_~~Your grace~~ _

_King._

_It’s so… formal. I’ll get used to it I suppose._

_We haven’t spoken in years so I’m going to guess this letter will come as a bit of a shock to you. Last time we saw each other, I said how I wanted to find out what was west of Westeros. Well, I’m home. I don’t know how long that will be. Let’s face it: I don’t always stay in one place._

_I have a confession to make. I’m not writing to you because I wanted to catch up. I’m writing to you because of Sansa. We haven’t always had the best of sibling relationships though I think age has matured us both. She is still my sister regardless how I feel about her. It’s natural for siblings to bicker and fight right? But look… and she’ll probably haunt me for eternity for saying this… but it’s important._

_When Sansa came home, she didn’t come alone…._

_…._

_…._

_…_

_Your cousin,  
Arya_

__________

With a solemn exhale, Arya replaced the quill then folded up the letter and sealed it. She had to get this letter out of Winterfell as soon as possible. It was late, but she was in a rush.

Very few people knew. She didn’t need it getting out to others. There was _one_ person she could go to: Maester Wolkan. Sansa told her he was one of the few people who knew—besides herself, of course. So she sought him out at his quarters, a modest room below the rookery.

The back of her knuckles rapped against his door; “Maester Wolkan,” she called to him. She noticed he was reading something but didn’t catch the title, “I’m sorry to disturb you. I know it’s late…”

“Not at all, my lady,” he responded, hardly catching the slight grimace Arya displayed at being referred to as a lady. He ear-marked his page in the book he was reading then set it aside and stood. “Is there something I can perhaps help you with this evening?”

Arya waltzed inside and handed him the letter. “I need you to make sure this gets to King’s Landing.” She left it at that, leaving out the small details of what the letter contained.

“Of course.”

Arya returned to her quarters and dressed down for bed but laid up for hours just pondering the implications of her actions. She tried convincing herself she was doing this for the benefit of Sansa, the baby—and hopefully Podrick as well.

 _Was_ she making the right call on this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch. I told myself I probably won't be going over twenty-five chapters which means that if I stick to that, Podrick and Sansa will be reunited soon. Hopefully. I still don't know how many more chapters I'll be writing before I get them together again. 
> 
> Arya means well. It's very obvious to her that her sister misses Podrick. I proposed the marriage letter as her pseudo 'come to jesus' moment. Up until this point, Sansa hadn't said anything to Podrick about the child. So if receiving that letter was the wake-up call she needed, so be it. She actually did have a legitimate reason for not saying anything but I wanted to save that for later on.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter :)


	17. The Truth of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Love, like everything else in life, should be a discovery, an adventure, and like most adventures, you don’t know you’re having one until you’re right in the middle of it.”_  
>  ― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to apologize for not updating quicker than this. I'd normally have another chapter out before now. Life got in the way. But I want to thank everyone who has been along for the ride so far. It's been tremendous fun writing this story.
> 
> This is it! In the last chapter, I had Arya write to King's Landing on Sansa's behalf. Well in this chapter, the letter is received and Podrick finds out Sansa is pregnant. It's an emotional ride for him. Obviously. There's definitely inner turmoil going on in that head of his but it was a joy to write. I have been wanting to do something between Jon and Podrick for a while now so this seemed as good of time as any.
> 
> Also, I will warn y'all now that this chapter does teeter on the edge of infertility which I know is a sensitive subject for a lot of people. Please know this going in and hopefully enjoy what I wrote.

The King and Queen of the Six Kingdoms have what is referred to as the small council, a body of government which advises their royal graces and institutes regulations at their mandate. Members of this council were usually appointed by the king himself; and theoretically be dismissed just as easily, however, this could conceivably lead to political consequence should that happen.

While it was typically the king who served as the head of the council, the queen could often take his place in these matters, especially if he had other royal duties to attend to. Though it could often be just the Hand of the King serving as the king’s – or queen’s proxy – when neither were present. He functioned as the leading advisor, appointed and authorized to make decisions in the King’s name.

When he was Lord Commander, Jaime rarely attending the council by choice. He was never interested in politics, usually leaving those matters to his brother Tyrion. He attended the council once but quickly grew bored and his mind drifted off elsewhere. Even before the meeting was over, Jaime had excused himself and walked off, leaving his uncle Kevan to take care of whatever they discussed.

Two members of the small council were unaccounted for – Jaime Lannister, Hand of the King, and his wife, Brienne Lannister, Lady Commander of the Royal Guard. Both of them had traveled to Tarth so the latter could attend to her dying father and the former could officially meet his goodfather. Their absence was noted but Daenerys wished them all the best.

As she saw to the last of the documents, she pushed a strand of hair from her eyes then turned her attention to Davos; “I understand we are still short a number of ships, Lord Davos,” she asserted. Initially timid and obedient, she since gathered confidence in herself. Polite and well-spoken, though filled with determination.

“Yes, your grace,” Clearing his throat, Davos arched his back, rolling his shoulders. It could be difficult to get comfortable. It could just be his age. “When I was first assigned this position, I took inventory of our remaining ships ported here at our shores. We have recovered a decent amount but those making port at Dragonstone are another matter. Materials are expensive and we lack enough resources for building, both in funds and manual labor.”

The Royal Fleet normally consisted of over two hundred warships. Less than half of those dipping approximately one hundred oars, if not slightly more. The fleet was divided into two squadrons: a smaller one, roughly fifty or so, was based out of King’s Landing while the larger of the two, a force of about one hundred and sixty, made port at Dragonstone.

Daenerys’s face remained solid. “Lord Tyrion,” glancing from her Master of Ships to the former Hand of the Queen, now made the Master of Coin, she asked, “can we afford more?”

“Your grace,” Tyrion began, “the Crown still owes repayment on loans from the Iron Bank. As you are I’m sure aware, the former Master of Coin was Lord Petyr Baelish. He was known for being somewhat of a financial genius when it came to having enough money to balance the books each year. The problem was this put the Iron Throne into heavy debt. He was borrowing massive sums of money from foreign banks.”

He managed a brief glance at Bronn, who shifted within his seat. Such a conversation about Baelish’s spending had come up before. If defaulters to the Iron Bank neglected to reimburse their loans, the Iron Bank would no longer give out new loans, and, in due course, fund their enemies.

Tyrion did well enough in the last three years; cutting costs where need be, keeping track of the spending. Rebuilding of King’s Landing, including the Royal Fleet, cost them a great deal.

Daenerys learned years ago that listening to the advising of people with more experience than her was the wisest of decision she could make. “What is it you suggest?”

“Your grace,” Davos cut in, before Tyrion could answer, “if I may,” she nodded, “we could commandeer from the Lannister fleet, perhaps salvage from what we can from Euron Greyjoy’s fleet, and look at the potential ships to buy from Essos…”

Tyrion shifted with mild discomfort. “Commandeer sounds a lot like piracy, Lord Davos. Maybe… requisition is a better word for it?” Truth be told, he was not aware just how many ships his house commanded at this point. He felt foolish for not keeping better track.

Before Davos could interject, Daenerys had raised a hand to silence him. “Lord Tyrion makes a valid point. We do not want people to believe we are trying to pilfer from their fleet when a more diplomatic solution can be discovered. When I became Queen, I swore I would uphold my office in better terms than my father did.” Her purple eyes swept over the small crowd, gauging each of their expressions. She addressed Tyrion; “Send word to Lord Gendry at Storm’s End,” the dragon queen stated, also remembering all too well when the blacksmith was still a bastard known as Waters, “We need to know the status of his fleet and then send words to the Casterly Rock and the Iron Islands, respectfully.”

“As you wish, you grace,” Tyrion and Bronn said simultaneously, though it came out more like a broken record than a rehearsed line. That would improve.

Davos spoke up, changing the subject from ships. “Your grace, I wonder if… if we might be able to procure more food for Flea Bottom?” He could practically see Daenerys’ brow lift before he met her stare. “You want your people to love you but sometimes the inhabitants in the slum are eaten rotten food not even fit for the pigs.”

The cogs in her head were turning. “Rotten food you say? Well, I shall see to it they receive better. I wonder if we might be able to apportion enough supplies to help rebuild some of the poorer districts.”

“We will have to take stock of what we currently have in supply, your grace,” Tyrion suggested.

Daenerys seemed pleased with that answer.

As a first for their meeting, Samwell spoke, “You grace, we might be able to open trade to other houses.” He registered the look of surprise and confusion that passed over the queen’s face. “Many of which have resources others do not. If trade routes were to open, this would create a sustainable network within the realm.”

“Duly noted,” she responded. As she stood, so did the others, and one of the Kingsguard arrived to stand behind Bran. “I am to meet with his grace shortly. I trust these plans will be set into motion.” All in attendance had agreed with a simple yes your grace… all except for one. He had been silent the length of the meeting, which could be interrupted different ways. “Bran, you have not said anything…”

Bran suddenly felt the non-verbal scrutiny of everyone’s eyes on him when Daenerys addressed him, calling upon him for his silence; “No, your grace,” he stated, rather pointedly, his face continuing to remain stoic, “My attention has been elsewhere…” His speech was always that of riddles; everyone often looked puzzled when trying to figure him out half the time – the queen was no exception.

The door to the small council chamber swung open with a light creek and in walked a scullery maid, effectively cutting off Daenerys’ train of thought. All eyes were no longer on her. Curious, everyone watched as this young woman, timid as a mouse apparently, approached. The first thing Daenerys noted was the movement of the girl’s hands. They shook, probably in fear, as something was handed over. A letter. Sealed in wax with a direwolf head stamped on the front.

 _Was this intended for me?_ A part of her, perhaps a small part, did wish the letter to be intended for her. She and Sansa were on amicable terms so Daenerys would like to assume they could correspond well enough; they’ve done so in the past quite well, actually. She may have been just a smidge too eager to break that seal, to unroll that parchment, to—wait: _King Jon…_ but it’s been scratched out. For a moment, Daenerys felt a drop in her belly. She should be folding it up again, waiting until she saw her husband, and let him read it. This letter was intended for him after all. Curiously, however, she continued.

Halfway through the letter, Daenerys was wishing she had stopped ahead of time. Everyone could see it. Her face had dropped. She appeared like she was somewhere between scowling in condemnation, possibly even antagonism and an indication of disloyalty. Once she had finished reading, she lifted her head up to see everyone watching her as if they had been waiting for something.

Exhaling softly, Daenerys quickly added, “If you would all excuse me… “ One by one, they all turned to leave her be… all except for one, whom she held back with the sound and tone of her voice. “…Ser Podrick, you will remain here please.”

Podrick froze. From the moment he accepted his position, he strived for excellence. To think anyone – much less the queen – might somehow be displeased with him was unsettling. Just the tone in her voice was more than enough to worry him. He was rapidly drowning in fear. Beads of sweat accumulating on the nape of his neck.

The moment they had gone, she told him to shut the door. Never before had a short walk to the council table ever felt like a long march to the scaffold. He felt as though the queen was calling him for an execution to which the crime was completely unknown. Podrick could feel the acceleration of his heartrate. Had he done something to offend Her Grace?

Daenerys hadn’t sat, not for a while. When she looked at him, she did so with the same glowering glance she used when reading the letter. Putting her hands against the table, she sighed; “Ser Podrick, when was the last time you spoke to Sansa Stark?”

Suddenly, Podrick was more than taken aback and instantly thought something was amiss. “I haven’t spoken to her since she parted for home, your grace.” But now he was curious; why would the queen of the six kingdoms be addressing him regarding the queen of the north? Something in his gut had twisted. “Is she alright? She’s not under any harm is she?”

“Not from what I gather from this letter,” Daenerys answered, then, “but, there is something regarding her that I do think you should be aware of.”

He was thinking the worst. He was not prepared for the answer.

~.~.~.~.~

Podrick was feeling panicked, like he was not able to get a full breath and not getting enough air into his lungs. He was on edge, finding himself caught between the natural fight or flight response. A heavy weight settled atop his chest, crushing him. The fear began clawing angerly at his throat. He was always insecure about himself and of his own feelings but this was something new that he could not overcome. His heart was racing. His stomach twisted in on itself. For all intent and purpose, Podrick truly considered running.

Pregnant. Sansa. Baby—the words were still jumbled in his brain. Had Daenerys just said that or was he in some obscure dream loop he hadn’t woken from? Podrick was not known to sleep walk nor recall any of his dreams. If this was one of those times, it had been extremely vivid. He tried to rationalize this sudden and unexpected fear but he just thought he was going crazy and he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Daenerys telling him that Sansa was carrying a child – **his** child – was quite a shock, one that he very briefly thought was a jest. She wasn’t the humorous type of person. Podrick knew that. So whatever she said must have been true.

While one minute he seemed stuck in an endless state of disbelief, the next saw his nearly bursting into tears as his brain processed the idea of a child. His body shook. His arms and shoulders felt heavy. He covered his face so his Queen would not see him crying. Rationalizing with himself that it would help to shield this embarrassment he was feeling.

__________

_Did… did Daenerys just say—pregnant?!_

_A cold sweat engulfed his body, from neck to navel. His muscles were rigid, his posture stiffed, his skin was tingling, and then his chest felt tight. He felt dizzy and disoriented. Podrick was staring across the table, his eyes focused and unblinking._

_When feeling finally did return to his legs, he slowly sunk down into the nearest chair. It was that or his knees would buckle and he would wind up on the floor. He had little reason to suspect Sansa would be deceitful but for that brief moment, his brain was rejecting the information it was hearing. Podrick grappled with the notion of this radical discovery; it was difficult._

_Daenerys folded up the parchment. “As you are aware, the restructuring of the Royal Guard allows for marriage and children,” she stated, then continued, her voice remaining flat and dry, “…but, a knight’s duty is first and foremost to his ruling monarch.”_

_“I have always t-tried to remain loyal to th-the crown…”_

_“For nearly four years.” She agreed with him, but then her tone—and conversation—shifted. “Ser Podrick, you affections for the Stark queen have not gone unnoticed. Now, with this sudden development, you need to decide now what exactly that means.”_

__________

There were no lands. No title. No inheritance. Nothing he could offer her or their child. His mind played on the horror that both of them were better off. She could marry a Northern lord, he could accept the child as his own, and she would be better off for it. Podrick knew she would likely have done so anyway had this unplanned pregnancy not complicated the issue. For all his irrational thinking, he doomed her prospects. In reality, what great lord would ever accept a child born out of wedlock?

Podrick hadn’t read the letter. And Daenerys neglected to tell him who wrote it. He assumed it was Sansa, not knowing that Arya had returned. She left nearly ten weeks ago, which meant she knew of this pregnancy before now. Why was he just _now_ finding out about it? Should he be happy? Angry? Elated? Maybe somewhere between all three?

He dropped onto the edge of his bed, finding temporary relief as he buried his face against his palms. He couldn’t start crying again. Not again. He was spent. What he _could_ do – or try to, anyway – was continue contemplating his life choices. It seemed fairly logical. Sansa needed him. He needed her. He should go.

But… he _couldn’t_.

There was something he couldn’t shake; _…to decide what that means_. Those were her _own_ words. Daenerys’ words. He would have to decide from here on out what this meant to him.

Podrick made a vow to the Royal Guard, a vow that was not easily broken. The Royal Guard was a sworn brotherhood who took their vows for life. Only death relieved them of this sacred trust. Yet, the thought of Sansa being alone when birthing their child, the thought of that child growing up without him, the idea of that child not having a proper family – like his own – was even more heartbreaking. His loyalty to the crown had been unwavering. Was his love for Sansa strong enough to make him break his vows?

This was a literal emotional crossroad. Podrick had to decide now which path he wanted. Daenerys gave him that option; he simply needed to make that choice. Logically, it should be so simple. Choosing his family over obligation. While his heart was telling him one thing, his brain was telling him another. Whilst in his current state, he couldn’t tell which he should be listening to.

As for now, he needed to do something. Anything. Besides sitting there on his bed. Alone with just his own thoughts and this pulsating dull pain in his heart. So, he flocked over to his mahogany desk and sat down with a quill in hand and parchment in front of him. A letter seemed like a decent enough idea; the only one he could think of at the time. Podrick needed to know things… like if Sansa and the babe were healthy. But even after dipping the quill in ink, he couldn’t begin to form the first sentence—not even the first word.

Podrick would not have admitted this – not aloud anyway – but he was eternally grateful when someone came knocking on his door, interrupting his rumbling brain as simple as snapping fingers. An even grater sigh of relief when the person walking through appeared to be a messenger, not anyone he could have expected—like the king or the queen or maybe someone else who discovered his predicament; Bronn, for one, would likely have come bursting in laughing, proclaiming how much he wasn’t surprised by all this.

This messenger, however, wasn’t one of the scullery maids or castle servants—it was the boy, Cassian. He wasn’t expected but seeing him somehow made Podrick feel relieved. “Ser Podrick, m-my apologies for the intrusion, ser, but I’ve been sent t-to collect you.” The boy had been dressed down for the day.

“Is it the king who summons me?” It would make sense that Jon would be asking for him. Daenerys probably told him everything; Podrick expected nothing less. That ache in his chest was back. As of this moment, there was no way for him to gauge the king’s reaction to such astonishing news.

Cassian nodded. “Yes, ser, but he didn’t tell me why,” he answered, “only that it was an urgent matter. He sounded really unhappy about whatever it was.” This promoted the boy to press the subject. “What _did_ you do, Ser?”

“Something I hope the king will forgive me for, Cassian.” He flashed a smile; he definitely did not want nor need this boy to have any reason to suspect something amiss. Just a simple smile was good enough. Setting his quill and parchment aside, Podrick pushed in his chair as he stood then walked over to where Cassian waited patiently for him. “Let’s not keep the king waiting.”

~.~.~.~.~

Jon and Daenerys had been holed up in the royal suites for the better part of an hour. Staring him in the face was the letter Arya wrote—the one meant for him that his wife had read before he did. The initial anger had worn off eventually but he was still left with this letter and an equally impossible decision to make.

His wife constantly fidgeting with her tongue didn’t help whenever he tried to get a word it yet couldn’t do so because she was always interrupting him. Then there was the pacing. Not back and forth as if she were impatient waiting for something but just unable to keep still whilst the pair contemplated how to handle this. Neither of them were unforgiving nor unreasonable; actually, Daenerys was far less so than Jon was but she thanked him every day for changing her, just a little, for the better.

This, however—this was not something either of them could simply wish away. The proverbial cat was out of the bag. As king and queen, it was their duty to determine the appropriate route to take from here on. Ser Podrick was a wonderfully respected member of the Royal Guard; this decision was not one either of them could handle so casually.

The pacing, however, was getting to him; “Dany, please stop,” he commanded in a gentle tone. She did as requested but looked at him with a raised brow. Standing, Jon walked to where she was. “My queen, what has you so perturbed?” Even at her worst, he would never cease to love her.

“I do not understand,” she started with. “Neither of us hear from Arya for nearly four years and when we do—oh, I apologize—I mean when _you_ do…” perhaps some bit of resentment over the fact Daenerys still hadn’t been widely accepted by any and all people of the Northern kingdom, “…it is to bring news of her sister’s pregnancy and pointing the culpability at Ser Podrick Payne for Sansa’s circumstance…”

Jon looked incredulous. “You don’t believe he is the father?”

“We both know how much he loves your cousin. I have no doubt what Arya writes is truth. I am only questioning why it was Arya and not Sansa herself. Should it not have been Sansa saying these things?”

“I agree it is peculiar but if I know my cousin, I’m sure she has her reasons.” He reached for his wife’s shoulders but Daenerys pulled away, prompting a questioning stare. He reached for her again, this time with better success than before. “Darling, what is this? There has to be more that you’re not telling me. Please talk. We don’t keep secrets from each other remember?” He put a well-placed finger beneath her chin and lifted, leveling her purple eyes with his brown orbs.

“This is not acceptable,” she wept; her tone of voice lessoned, taking on a much more somber feel than when she first spoke, “We have been trying for _years_ for a child. Where the Mother grants one so easily to them, she does not do the same for us. She does not answer my prayers. I fear it might because of everything my father has done before me. That witch was right; I will never birth a living child…” She sounded so defeated. A tear had begun tumbling down her face.

Jon pressed a kiss to the bridge of her nose. “We were meant to have children,” he said in a very gentle and loving tone; the same one Daenerys always adored about him. “You cannot rush things like this.”

“I am impatient, Jon. I _need_ to have a child.”

Before Jon could return words, there came a knock at the door. “Come!” He called out, then turned his attention to his wife. “I need to speak to him, Dany.”

“I know.” She brushed away her own tears. “I will leave you to it.”

They shared a loving yet brief kiss just as the door pushed open. In walked the young boy Cassian first, followed closely by Ser Podrick. He shared a simple look with Daenerys, greeting her with a succinct bow just as she was walking out.

Jon addressed the boy; “You may leave us,” and out he went, pulling the door shut behind him. Now, alone, he focused his undivided attention on Podrick. But first, a drink. He helped himself to a glass and made sure to pour one for his guest. “Do you know why I am called Snow?” He took a quick sip of red wine.

“Because you were raised a northern bastard,” Podrick answered as he accepted the chalice, though he hadn’t drank from it quite yet. His eyes momentarily found the edge of where the wine met with the silver inline before he was once again looking at his king. “All northern bastards are called Snow.”

“I chose to keep the name I was raised with because I couldn’t accept being referred to by a name that I feel didn’t rightly belong to me,” Jon went onto explain. “If Robert Baratheon had found out about me, I would have been killed. Lyanna Stark knew it. The last thing she did as she bled to death on the birthing bed was give the child to her brother. I grew up believing I was Ned Stark’s son. I knew early on that Lady Catelyn was not my mother, although she had me clothed and fed and comforted with a bed all the same.”

“I didn’t arrive to King’s Landing until after Lord Stark’s execution,” Podrick explained, “so I never had the pleasure of meeting him.”

“I think he would have enjoyed you. He was a very honorable man. Much like you are. Tell me, what do you remember of your parents?”

“My parents?” Podrick seemed rarely surprised; he was so young when he lost both of them that any memories he did still have were few. “Oh, um, not much. My father was killed when I was three years old and my mother abandoned me a year later. To be honest, I don’t even remember what they looked like. Why the curiosity about my parents, your grace?”

“You see, I never thought I would have children of my own. I joined the Night’s Watch knowing what I would be giving up but knowing I never cared about any of that. That changed when I fell in love with Daenerys. I want the feeling a baby boy in my arms and to teach him right… as Ned Stark taught me.” At this point, Jon took a sip of wine then set it down on the table. “That letter was meant for me so I apologize if she blindsided you with the information. Did she also tell you that it was not Sansa who wrote it?”

Podrick blinked. “She didn’t write it herself?”

“No, I am afraid not. It was Arya who wrote to me.”

“I thought she had traveled west?”

“She did for a time. I was equally as surprised to receive word from her… much less in this fashion. Regardless, it was information that took time for me to process. I suspect Sansa has her reasons for not writing herself…”

Despite trying to reason this logic with himself, Podrick was still upset in a way. “Why do you think there would be any kind of a word now? It would be better for Sansa, and the babe, if she were wedded to a northern lord, someone titled, someone she could secure a future for her child with.”

“Come now. You don’t believe that do you?” When he asked that, he noticed how Podrick’s eyes were no longer looking at him but at his own feet. “Sansa was cruel to me when we were children. We never had a great relationship. When I saw her again after I thought her dead? None of that mattered. It was the happiest I had been. But I knew _she_ was not happy. At least not with anyone else… but you. Do you believe I hadn’t noticed your affections before? I never said anything because I would not deny her happiness, not after everything she had been through.”

Podrick sniffled before the tears could start. “The child—”

“—needs a father,” Jon completed.

“And it won’t be me.”

“I would not be so honorable if I denied my cousin’s child the love of a _true_ father.” He knew what he needed to do. “Ser Podrick, I am relieving you of your position in the Royal Guard. Effective immediately. You are to pack what provisions you need and you are to leave for Winterfell as soon as possible.”

He was surprised, but secretly pleased all the same. “Your grace, I mean no disrespect…”

“And you have given none. I should have sent you back to Winterfell years ago instead of inducting you into the Royal Guard.”

“I made my choice then.”

“Yes,” Jon said, then added, “and I am making mine now.” Picking up his wine goblet once more, Jon ambled close to the knight then clasped a hand on Podrick’s shoulder. “I have always admired your heart, Ser Podrick. I will not be responsible for breaking it a second time. Go… and give my love to Sansa for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was sure a doozy to write but I'm glad I did it! The next few chapters should be equally interesting to write as Podrick leaves King's Landing and Sansa will have zero idea he's coming. I mentioned in this chapter that he had the chance to be with her once before but chose the Royal Guard. This is something I thought of randomly but now that I wrote it, I want to explore more of that to find out what happened. It's all so exciting!


	18. I'm Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Home is where you go to find solace from the ever-changing chaos, to find love within the confines of a heartless world, and to be reminded that no matter how far you wander, there will always be something waiting when you return.”_  
>  ― Kendal Rob

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn! Here I am posting another chapter two days later?! I must be on _fire!_. Or not, lol. I just had a lot of thought I needed to get out. I probably could have combined the chapters but I think it worked out better this way, tbh. I hope y'all enjoy this one. It's a bit of a tear-jerker! (In a good way; I promise!). 
> 
> I included some notes at the end that pertain to a few things you'll be seeing in this chapter. You'll also notice how I talk about the 'dark red gillyflower'. I had mentioned this in earlier chapters so I thought it would help with continuity to bring it up again.

_Podrick walked alone through the desolation,_ _imagining the hordes of dead that would have littered the cobblestone streets and alleyways – Dothraki, Lannister, and Stark men making a melting pot of corpses, the smell of decay and death enough to choke the breath_ _._

_The dilapidated buildings, remnants of what had been—reduced to ruins._

_They spent their last moments running as cashes of wildfire exploded around them; just a shadow on the side of a building to remind him of who perished there. It had been years yet since his return. There was no amount of destruction to King’s Landing that could ever make him forget these buildings, or that alleyway, or the gates of the Red Keep, now charred with so much soot the once red doors now looked black._

_He was thankful to not be one of those counted amongst the dead but also guilty at feeling that grateful he was still alive. Podrick thought he should have been here, fighting side-by-side with the Stark men. No; it was Sansa who begged him to stay. He obliged. Brienne had left, Jon had left, everyone else had left—she couldn’t bare it if he had left—and died—and she was left alone._

_Sansa. Thinking of her brought warm feelings to his heart. It aided in easing such an unsettling feeling knowing Brienne had been out here, risking herself, almost losing her life. He and Sansa relied on each other for that comfort and strength. The fact either of them were alive was a miracle._

_She had been summoned to a small counsel—a meeting to which he had not been invited to._

_The Dragonpit is a massive edifice within King’s Landing where a giant dragon stable for House Targaryen once stood. It was constructed in the wake of Maegor Targaryen’s obliteration of the Sept of Remembrance though destroyed during the civil war known as the Dance of the Dragons; the few remaining dragons died out soon after this war so the stables were never rebuilt—left to ruin since._

_Following the Battle of King’s Landing, the lords and ladies of Westeros assembled here to discuss how they should proceed. Podrick knew very little of the goings on which surrounded this meeting. Brienne was alive—he knew that much—and that Daenerys was successful in retaking King’s Landing._

_Sansa located him at the edge of the Red Keep. She was escorted by two soldiers for her own protection; danger still lurked here, despite the eerie calm blanketing the city. “Ser Brienne had told me I was likely to find you out here,” she asserted, smiling when he turned. “Leave me with him,” she dictated to the soldiers standing behind her. They sputtered, muttering something about propriety and security, to which she simply cocked an eyebrow and stared at them. “You do realize you are talking to the Lady of Winterfell correct? I am in the safest of hands right now. That should be enough for either of you.” Her tongue was wicked, and her temper worse._

_Podrick snickered as the soldiers marched off; “You were a little harsh don’t you think?” He queried, stepping a little closer to her._

_Her nose crinkled. “Absolutely not. They should all know by now that you would never harm me. I would not have you in my company if I thought otherwise.” She continued to narrow her eyes, just a bit, as though to purposely make him nervous. Then her façade slowly began to crumble; Sansa started to giggle._

_“And who ever said I wouldn’t?” He inched closer to her._

_Sansa crinkled her left brow. “Mayhap I ought to recall them in that case.”_

_“Yes,” he added, “perhaps you should.” He kept moving in closer until he was practically breathing on her and then he tugged her into his body, planting a passionate kiss on her lips._

_She disconnected from their embrace. “You are a wagering man, Podrick Payne.”_

_“My wagering has paid off hasn’t it?” He kissed her once more._

_Kissing him reminded him of warm cider on a cold winter’s evening. Seated there at the hearth in her parents’ quarters while her father wove tales of knights and fair princesses—her favorite; she had nearly forgotten had it not been for Podrick’s love. All she wanted was to be touching him, to be kissing him, to be resting her head on his chest—her most favorite place in the world._

_Sansa planted her hands against his body, smacking her lips; “I can hardly believe it, Pod. Cersei Lannister is dead.” She casually brushed her thumb over his collarbone. “I always wanted to be there when they execute her... but it seems Ser Jaime has beaten me to it.” Sansa picked at the hem of his squire robes. “After all these years, I am finally free of her. I’ve never felt happier. Does that make me so horrible?”_

_“No, of course not.” He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “The others—what about them?” He knew Brienne was alright—thankfully—but worried about the others he didn’t know about; Tyrion, Davos, Jon, Jaime—people he knew had been part of this battle._

_Sansa sighed; she was looking dejected. “There were a lot of casualties. Sandor Clegane—he, he died in the north tower collapse… along with his brother, Gregor. The others—they survived. Ser Jaime…” She gave pause and saw how Podrick’s face had changed. “…he suffered some injury but he lives. I am told that Lady Brienne has not left his side.”_

_“It’s Ser now,” he corrected, “Ser Brienne.” When Sansa looked at his curiously, he explained; “Ser Jaime knighted her on the eve of battle against the White Walkers. She is a knight of the Seven Kingdoms now.”_

_“I must remember to congratulate her. However—you are mistaken about one thing.” Sansa sighed, accepting the idea before telling him. “There is only six kingdoms under the queen’s rule. Winterfell is to become an independent kingdom… as it had been once before some years ago.”_

_“And… you will be queen?”_

_She nodded. “Yes—Queen of the North.”_

_“Then… I shall bow to my queen.” He did so, getting down on one knee._

_Smiling, Sansa couched low and clutched his head in her hands. “You bow to no one.”_

_“My queen—” he quite liked the sound of that, how it felt on his tongue as he said it, “it’s only proper that I show you the respect you deserve.”_

__________

It felt like such a lengthy stroll back to his quarters. Each passageway he strode by, each flight of stairs he ascended—they all seemed so irrelevant to him now. There was no one within the parameter of these halls who could bear witness to such a slow, methodical gate. The way he slouched his shoulders. The way his head hung just slightly low. The way he was looked straight ahead of him and not bouncing his eyes back and forth just on the off chance someone _could_ be there.

Podrick was grateful for the silence and lack of audience. With no other voices crowding him, he could effortlessly internalize his emotions without feeling as though he needed to be competing for his own headspace. There was quite a lot going on right now.

As Daenerys indicated, he had obediently served the realm for many years. He accepted assignment without question, executing any and all duties to the best of his abilities. He was admired – venerated, even -- for his steadfast dedication. Like countless other decent things in his life, this too had attained its end. Being release of his vows had initially felt like a punishment. For just a fraction of a heartbeat, Podrick considered this. It wasn’t unjust retribution, though; it was leniency. His only transgression was loving a woman far out of his reach. The passion they shared for one another conceived a miracle. Children were a gift; not everyone was as fortunate.

He should be thrilled. Truth be told—he had never been more frightened. The battle with the White Walkers didn’t scare him, hoping and praying Ser Brienne would survive hadn’t scared him; this—this terrified him.

Once he was within his quarters again, Podrick was granted a moment of relief. He pressed his entire body up against the door, sighing heavily. His eyes found a spot on the floor with a knot in the wood and there is where he stared for quite a while. Though at some point, he managed to step away from the door and began stripping himself of armor—beginning with the white cloak he had worn for so long.

__________

_She kissed him then—strong, rapidly, and bursting with heat greater than the flame breathed from the mouth of Daenery’s dragons. Podrick responded appropriately, wrapping his arms tight around her and pulling her close until her whole body melded to his own. Their kissing continued to grow in intensity and passion until he had somehow gotten lost within her. His mouth dipped low until his lips found the nape of her neck. He sucked hard at her pulse point, feeling the blood pulsing beneath her warm flesh._

_Sansa groaned, entangling her fingers in his hair. “We… we should get back… “ Her voice was nearly breathless the more his mouth made love to her skin. Every inch of her was aflame with such visceral energy._

_He made some kind of groaning sound, his lips vibrating against her throat. “Not yet. Not yet…” Respect. It was only proper. And he wanted her. Gods how he wanted her._

_Podrick edged her further back until their bodies were concealed by shadow. Then his hand snaked over her clothing, across her breasts, down her midsection, and hitched up the skirt of her dress. Sansa gasped as he inserted one finger… and then another… and then began moving them—in and out, slowly at first, and then more swiftly._

_She threw her head back, mouth agape. Fuck--this was perfect. She grabbled at the belt of his tunic and furiously fought with the buckle until she had it undone. Podrick slipped his fingers from between her thighs as her hands pushed his britches past his hips. He guided her down on his cock then immediately began a series of rapid, upward thrusting until he had filled her up entirely. Coming down from their high was equally as thrilling. Her legs were still singing when she moved off of him._

_They readjusted themselves afterwards then started heading back before anyone could question their prolonged absence. While no one would be bothered about Podrick absence, people would start talking if they knew Sansa was alone with him. They parted ways for now but he made her promise to meet with him later that evening after feast; there was something he was intending to ask her…_

__________

After discarding off his uniform, Podrick sieved through a medium-sized trunk at the foot of his bed – a dark wooden chest carved from an oak tree and in-lined with speckles of the original red leaves; just enough of the breaks in the wood to give it an intricate appearance.

He eventually uncovered whatever he was searching for. While posy and fede rings had been very popular choices for engagement rings, Podrick hadn’t the funds for something so costly. Instead, he opted for something far more simple -- two oak branches carefully intertwined together with dried pedals of a dark red gillyflower. Since this color symbolized love and affection, it seemed appropriate.

Podrick managed to hang onto it for all these years. No one else knew of its existence. Not even the person he intended to give it to.

_________

_He was nearly clear of the Red Keep – dodging around fancy-dressed lords and ladies, swerving to avoid accidently bumping into the cooks, and successfully drowning out the roar of celebration seeping out between the cracks of the door leading to the throne room; however, Ser Brienne managed to catch him just as he rounded another corner._

_Podrick hastily secreted the ring behind his back. “Oh, Ser, were you—were you looking for me?” He attempted play acting it off as if there was not anything to be skeptical of._

_“Why are you not at the celebration, Pod?” Despite such a casual event, she was still garbed in the same blue knight’s armor Jaime Lannister had made for her._

_He shrugged. “I guess I’m not really in a celebration type of mood.”_

_“You ought to be. There is much to be grateful for.” Brienne rested her hand against the hilt of Oathkeeper, her fingers delicately circling around. “I have news. Ser Jaime has been pardoned for his crimes and has been given the position as Hand of the King by his grace, King Jon.”_

_“Oh, well, that… that is fantastic news,” he said._

_“There is more.” Though knowing Jaime had been cleared of any wrongdoings and would be given a high position within the king’s counsel, Brienne seemed most excited about something else. “Both of their graces have personally asked me to serve as Lady Commander of what will now be called the Royal Guard.”_

_The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard – now officially known as the Royal Guard – was the direct head of this prestigious order, appointed by the king himself._

_While the Lord Commander was normally plucked from an existing pool of Kingsguard, an exception had been since all members of the former Kingsguard were dead. This meant new ones would be selected soon enough. He – or she – held a seat on the small counsel, offering military advice on land-based warfare. This was separate from the Master of Ships who typically handled naval affairs._

_Podrick seemed pleased; if anyone deserved such a position of honor, it was Ser Brienne. “That is definitely cause to celebrate. Congratulations are in order.”_

_“I have been given leave to select the remaining members.”_

_For just a moment, his heartrate accelerated. “O-Oh? Well, I mean, I-I suppose you will make fair choices…” He was becoming nervous all of a sudden and he didn’t understand why._

_“I would be honored if you would be one of them.” For all they had been through together, Brienne thoroughly considered the squire to be the most obvious choice—he was steadfast, courageous, and obedient._

_The blood pummeled in his ears. His heart thumped inside his chest. His hands shook. His feet tingled. His vision grew blurry. He suddenly felt this inability to breathe, feeling like he was being choked to death on stale air. His stomach was churning._

_“M-Me…?” His question was out of shock; surely there could have been better candidates._

_Brienne nodded. “Yes of course. I could think of no one else.” She took a step forwards, lifting a hand from the pommel of Oathkeeper to place on Podrick’s shoulder. “You are a loyal squire and dare say a trusted friend and ally. I would truly be honored.”_

_“I-I am…. indebted to you, Ser, but—well, I am not yet a knight and…”_

_Brienne smirked; she actually smirked—she was definitely planning something. “We will need to remedy this. Do you recall when I asked you if you wanted to be a knight and confessed I wasn’t able to properly knight you? Well, I have been blessed with the chance to do something about that and it’s high time you were knighted… “_

_He rubbed at his chest, feeling his own heartbeat progressively mounting._

_She dropped a hand from his shoulder to pluck Oathkeeper from its sheath. “Take a knee, Podrick Payne.”_

__________

The door opened rather unexpectedly. He initially thought it could have been either King Jon or Queen Daenerys and he should be presentable—but he stopped what he was doing to look only to see the young boy Cassian just barely standing within the room.

Podrick sighed and returned to what he was doing; “You shouldn’t barge into someone’s quarters without being invited,” he said, not realizing his reprimand probably sounded harsher than he meant it to.

“Is it true?” Whatever tone used with him had been ignored.

Blinking, Podrick did not waver from finishing the last of his packing. “Is what true, Cassian?”

Cassian confirmed his own suspicions when he noticed the packed bags and the tailored Royal Guard uniform hanging off of the steel mannequin in the corner. “Nevermind,” he declared and his eyes immediately filled with tears. He brushed them off quickly; Ser Podrick would admonish him for it.

“I’m leaving here as soon as possible.”

His ten-year-old brain couldn’t comprehend a legitimate justification. He knew Ser Podrick was among the most honored of knights – and of the Royal Guard. “But… you can’t… “ He tried to reason. To him, this was as good as anything else. “Whatever you’ve done—I’m sure the king and queen will forgive you eventually…” Suddenly, the boy flocked across the room and latched on the knight’s arm.

Podrick glanced at him, blinking; “Cassian, please let go. Listen—“ His attention wavered from the last of his provisions in order for him to address the boy. He crouched in front of him, lightly taking both arms. “—a knight must exemplify everything it means to be honorable. You remember what I taught you? In order to adhere to the morality of responsibility, we have an obligation to take accountability for our own actions… “

“I don’t want you to go,” the boy wept. “You are my only friend. My teacher. My mentor. I admire you so much. You can’t go away! You just can’t!”

He offered Cassian a warm smile; it broke his heart to leave him behind. “Should the day come where you are no longer a pageboy, come find me.”

With that, Podrick gathered his provisions and left.

__________

_She waited patiently, eagerly anticipating his arrival._

_Podrick found her at the fountain in the middle of the gardens, one of the few splendors left standing. He held back for a short while, allowing himself to absorb in her beauty from a distance. He mentally prepped himself—he was going to have to break her heart. This destroyed him. Before his approach, Podrick took one last look at the oak branch ring, sighed regrettably, then slipped it between the cold steel of his sword and the leather scabbard._

_When she lifted her head and saw him, it was her warm smile that did him in. Each step towards her was just another piece of his heart being torn apart. Sansa immediately stepped into him to pepper his mouth with a kiss but he stepped back, avoiding it and provoking an awkward eyebrow raise at the same time._

_Podrick took her by the hand and led her back to the fountain. They sat down and he was quiet for quite a long time. What Sansa mistook for willful silence was just him trying to think of what to say to her._

_Alas, he felt defeated. His thumb gradually rubbed over each of her knuckles in turn. The saddened look in her blue eyes had him entirely beaten. “Sansa, I… I can’t go back with you… “ Podrick lifted her right hand, peppering her flesh with a simple yet loving kiss. “I’ve been made a knight and tomorrow, I accept a position in the Royal Guard…”_

_“That is a marvelous honor, **Ser** Podrick,” she stated, drawing out his official title—it felt good on the tongue. But despite her happiness for him, Sansa knew what she was giving up. She already accepted this because she knew this is what he deserved._

_Yes, this is true, but he shook his head at the idea; another one popped up. “All you have to do is say the word. Just say the word and I’ll walk away—from knighthood, from the Royal Guard, from King’s Landing…” While he always wanted to be a knight, Podrick had new desires now. If it meant being with the woman he loved, he would give up literally everything._

_“You will not,” she reprimanded, though her tone was softened. “No one deserves this more than you. I want you to stay. As you once served me, you now serve another member of my family. This is something I wouldn’t trust anyone else with.” She caressed the side of his face. “This is not goodbye. This is only farewell for now. We will see each other again someday. I believe that.”_

_“It may not be for quite some time.”_

_She thumbed the side of his face. “You will be worth the wait.”_

_Podrick leaned into her, capturing her lips in a very erotic, stimulating kiss. They proceeded to make love to each other under the protection of an oak tree. Afterward, they basked in the glory of the setting sun until it completely vanished from their view._

_She curled in close next to him, basking in the warmth his body provided, and pillowed her head where she always felt the greatest comfort—atop his chest with his heart beating in an even cadence, soothing her to sleep as it has before. In the morning, they dressed and slipped back into the castle before anyone had noticed their prolonged absence._

_Sansa was there when he was inaugurated into the Royal Guard, prouder than ever._

__________

Podrick wasted no time in saddling his horse. Others around him looked on curiously but he did not give them any satisfaction of an answer. Let them be suspicious. Let them come to whatever conclusion the wanted.

Once things were done, he hoped up into the saddle, gave his breast pocket a nice pat—yes, the ring was still in there; safe and snug—then spurred the horse into a nice trot. His heart was beating quite hard, knowing where he was riding off to and what awaited him.

Sansa. Their child. His _family_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually, I'll put a decent amount of research into each chapter as I'm writing. I was surprised when I found that the concept of an 'engagement ring' in the medieval era. 
> 
> https://www.acsilver.co.uk/acsnews/2017/08/31/engagement-ring-history/
> 
> "It is widely believed that the Ancient Egyptians were the first to use rings as a symbol for matrimony. They believed the complete circle represented eternity, and a couple would exchange rings made out of woven reeds. They would wear these rings on their left hand, on the finger between the middle finger and the little finger, which would eventually be known as the ring finger because of this practice. They chose this finger because it was believed that in this finger there was a vein that ran directly to the heart. This vein has been named “vena amoris” which in Latin literally means “vein of love."
> 
> "During the Middle Ages, marriage and engagement were taken very seriously, as the engagement was as binding as the marriage. The betrothed couple would appear in front of a priest to make their solemn promises and exchange rings. During the Middle Ages, posy rings and fede rings were very popular choices for engagement rings.
> 
> In this period, the ‘banns of marriage’ were also implemented, firstly by the Catholic church, meaning that all marriages must be made public knowledge to ensure that there were no objections or lawful reasons why a couple should not be wed. This made it even more appealing for a man to show that his betrothed was no longer available for courtship, as there would be a waiting period (roughly 40 days) before the couple would be allowed to marry. Grooms were also obligated to pay a ‘deposit’ at the engagement ceremony; if he then tried to back out of the agreement he would have to pay a penalty that was equal to four times the betrothal price."
> 
> Posy ring - a ring with a short inscription, were the popular ring of the 16th-18th centuries in England and France, and a few rare examples can be seen as early as the 14th century. These rings derived their name from the French word for poem, describing the motto on the inside or exterior of the ring. Rings such as these were often used as lover's tokens, betrothal or wedding rings and are the forerunners of modern wedding bands. The rarest posy rings have ornate engraved exteriors, often with floral decoration, and sometimes also are inlaid with enamel
> 
> Fede rings - This ring combines the ancient fede( faith ) motif of two hands clasped together, with another motif depicting two hands holding a heart.These symbols signified love and fidelity. It is likely that this ring was a love token, representing everlasting love, or perhaps a betrothal ring. Fede rings were made all over Europe in the Middle Ages.


	19. Confessions; part the first - Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Your greater purpose is already written in the fabric of your being; your purpose awaits your arrival.”_  
>  ― Bryant McGill, Simple Reminders: Inspiration for Living Your Best Life

Sansa had reached the stage where this pregnancy made it evident of a babe in there. Whilst still being able to take pleasure in relative delight this past week, it was progressing to the point where she wasn’t able to conceal her condition any longer—even if she chose to.

The weight gain and that of her child’s had picked up considerably. It was difficult to watch herself continue to gain weight, even when she knew the reason for it.

In addendum to the tenderness in her breasts, Sansa noticed that her nipples were distended more than usual and appeared more luscious though they sure didn’t feel that way. At the start of her pregnancy, her breasts were extremely – sometimes excruciatingly so – tender to the touch. Now it felt more like a dull ache. The areolas, those dark areas around the nipples, had become darker – a little spotted – and just a smidgen wider. She also noticed a convoluted thoroughfare of what emerged to be blue veins just beneath the skin’s surface.

As her midpoint get bigger, Sansa’s lower back rounded out more in order to provide accommodation for the developing child. However—this resulted in some brutally strained muscles. Her back pain almost always took the form of aches, stiffness, and soreness… usually located in the upper or lower regions and hips. She could normally alleviate some of these aches and pains by rubbing some peppermint oil over the inflicted area. It also has analgesic, antispasmodic, and anti-inflammatory properties.

A suitable alternative that could assuaged these aches and pains was a warm bath, particularly at the conclusion of a long day bursting with naught but meetings upon meetings upon meetings. Once the water was drawn, she’d dismiss her maids for the evening; _go enjoy your dinner_ , she would say to them. Particularly as of late, she opted to dress and de-dress herself as much as possible.

In actuality—how much longer could she go on like this? A small white lie here and there, using as much fabric as she could – or any object within arms read – to conceal her belly…

Sansa thought about these things as of late.

Like the second letter from Lord Ryswell that had gone unanswered. He inquired about her decision. Did she accept his son? If so, Rickard would ride hard and fast, as fast as the winds could take him. There would be a Northern wedding of course; they very much favored the Old Gods up here. If he accepted the child as his own, Sansa’s babe would know only Rickard as its father. She wouldn’t take his name. She would remain a Stark. He might take her name; that would be a matter of his own choosing. Sansa would ask him to retain his House name. Her child would be a Stark as well.

She also thought about what it would be… what she would name it; would it be named for her father if she should have a boy? Or mayhap named for her mother should it be a girl. Perhaps neither of those names. Between now and then, Sansa could have an entire library of names to ponder over.

As wood cracked and popped in the hearth, she nestled back in her bath water – now turned a moderate lukewarm temperature – with one of her hands solidly balanced on her bump. A midwife had told her that touch was the best way to connect with her unborn child. It was quite natural and common for women with child to incessantly caressing their bellies since it was considered comforting. It may even soothe the babe if it was kicking or moving around too much. Sansa eagerly anticipated feeling that first flutter in her belly but as a first-time mother, it could be weeks still before that earliest noticeable movement.

The door to her bedchambers opened—Sansa was startled and instinctively reached for the towel laying precariously across the arm of a nearby chair.

It was only Arya; “Jittery much?” The door shut behind her as she traipsed inside. She proceeded to help herself to a drink—but the only thing available was ice water.

“Considering I have not told everyone else about this pregnancy, I believe I have every right to be—as you would call it—jittery,” Sansa climbed out of the tub and tucked the towel around her body. The rough fabric rubbed against her belly. With a flick of her over her shoulders, she waltzed over to the bed where a dress and undergarments hung over the footboard.

Arya only bobbed her head in acknowledgement she heard Sansa and it was only after she swallowed a bite of bread that she responded; “You know you won’t be able to conceal this much longer.” She did a visual once over then added, “You _are_ looking plumper these days.” Arya wasn’t known for her tactfulness; she was known for her blunt and brutal honesty.

Sansa displayed some shock on her face. “Arya!” Despite her best efforts, a blush slowly began rising from the base of her neck to her face; she blamed the temperature of the room.

“Don’t get cross with me! I’m just here being a pragmatist. You think these heavily layered dresses are going to help you much longer?” It was then she saw the unopened letter from House Ryswell just lying there. She snatched it up and quickly broke the seal—ignoring the protests of her sister. “You haven’t given him an answer yet.” Arya locked eyes with Sansa. “The longer you put this off, the worst it will be for you.”

She frowned, knitting her brows together. “How will this be worse for me? Even if I were to marry, I would remain a Stark, not become a Ryswell. My child would be a Stark as well. A son or daughter born with a least one noble parent can still be granted a surname.”

“Bastard,” Arya stated matter-of-factly, continuing with her tradition of blunt honesty, “The word you are looking for is bastard—which is _exactly_ what your child is.” She ignored the glare of daggers coming at her from across the room. “Bastard refers to someone born out of marriage. You weren’t married to Podrick when his child was conceived, which makes it a bastard. Lord Ryswell deserves an answer… even if it’s to tell him you don’t accept the proposal…”

“Why does there have to be such a societal stigma around the term bastardy?” She appeared genially upset by this and inadvertently began caressing her belly as if protecting a child not yet born. She took comfort in this. “A woman should not be obliged to marriage just as a child should not be regarded as a bastard. A child is a blessing regardless of origin. This babe will be legitimized by my hand as only a ruling monarch can do so.”

“While I agree, others will not. Do you for one second believe the northern lords even accept that?” She folded up the letter and tossed it aside, discarding it like an unwanted piece of bad news. Arya admired her sister’s optimism but worried all of it would come crashing down around her. After so much she’d done and built, this was the last thing Arya wanted to see for Sansa.

She may have been hopeful and optimistic but she was also quite terrified at just the idea these northern lords would not be receptive to her plan. Some already doubted her ability to lead.

The sisters then fell into an awkwardly uncomfortable silence where Sansa knew that Arya was right but was too proud to admit it and Arya felt she might have been too harsh with her sister when they hadn’t seen or spoken in years.

She decided to help Sansa get dressed.

It was a natural red burgundy flax linen dress with short sleeves. The tailored bodice of the tunic accentuated the breast and waist while a wide skirt with four additional extensions wrapped with soft creases. The skirt was stitched with the same trim as the sleeves and neckline. Beneath this was a white chemise that put the accent on many of the softer curves and gentler shapes of Sansa’s body. The shoulder seam was diligently fitted, puffing out just marginally with the support of a number of subtle pleats and assembling once more at the bicep with a linen drawstring. It was from there that the sleeves became less fitted, flaring out into an attractive bell shape that draped from her arms.

Of course, the bodice hadn’t been pulled to its tensest knot. Sansa heard horror stories of women who did this ending up miscarrying their child due to the increased pressure applied to the mid-section. Once fitted with her outfit for the day, she herded to an adjacent chair then snatched a brush and started combing in through her hair, tugging away at some of the knots that had accumulated.

Arya picked up the discarded towel then began drying off her sister’s hair. Sansa then dragged the brush through her hair once more. Then she began to style it. Most of this she could handle herself without assistance. Today’s choice was a two-sided feeder braid pooled together at the back of her head and draping down the remaining amount of her hair.

Sansa stood with her hand draped across her belly. _Don’t you worry, my heart, mama is here,_ she was thinking, as if she even assumed the babe could hear her, or sense her touch, or understand that feeling of anxiety gurgling within her gut.

Heaving a sigh, she only asked one question; “Arya, you will support me right?” Sansa appeared almost…pleading. She didn’t have any other family here. Having her sister there for encouragement when it come to her decisions would mean everything to her.

“Of course.”

~.~.~.~.~

One of these days, Sansa should really think about assembling her own version of a small counsel. These advisors and representatives of various factions could be of great use.

A Hand of the Queen _could_ be ideal but neither Robb nor Balon Greyjoy appointed their own Hand because of their fighting to secede their respective regions into independent kingdoms. The traditional office of this position seemed unique to the regimen of the Iron Throne itself.

Despite the nearly four years that have past, she felt wholly unfitted for politics these days—something that was routinely naught like her.

Sansa was an altruist in political affairs; she took her obligations seriously and constantly struggled to do the right thing – even if that meant benefitting her more than others. She based her moral compass on well-known customs and decrees, upholding authority and statutes, rather than drawing her morality from philosophy. Sansa liked to maintain a clear, stable, and organized environment. She thrived more with structure and guidelines. The typical monotonous task was not an issue for her. And she habitually rebuffed far-reaching motions in preference of something more conspicuous.

However—there was this matter of her pregnancy she had yet to address. As Arya advised to her earlier, she couldn’t continue to keep putting this off.

But blurting out _I’m with child_ wasn’t going to do.

She briefly looked towards her sister seated on her right – Arya gave her _just do this_ nod – and Sansa was exhaling as slow as possible, just trying to keep her heartrate was getting too high.

Turning to address all in attendance, she cleared her throat; “My lords, as many of you might be aware, I have received a proposal of marriage from Lord Ryswell to his middle son – Rickard.” She expected there to be some clamoring of voices; many agreed with this match – truth be told, Sansa did as well for a brief time – but then she continued on. “…I regret to inform all of you that I cannot accept.”

The clamoring continued, this time as a roar of mixed emotions – anger, confusion, disappointment, etc. – but no voice was louder than Lord Ryswell himself, who glared at the young queen as though he was sharpening a thousand daggers.

“Your grace!” He started with, his voice more than a little tense. “I have been blessed with five children though it has pleased the Old Gods to take two from me. My eldest son is the heir of my house. It would be an honor for my second oldest to marry into House Stark.”

Sansa addressed Lord Ryswell directly. “House Stark has bore many strong and confident leaders in the past. The fact I am a woman makes little difference. Your son will make a wonderful husband… but for someone else. I know you were expecting me to accept so I must apologize for angering you.”

More baying of voices; almost too much. She allowed them to go on for a short while. In the meantime, she was steeling glances between her sister on her right and Maester Wolken on her left. She already knew nothing she said was going to help.

Eventually, she held up a hand to silence the voices; “For thousands of years, women have been regarded as the weaker sex. But among those existed a warrior queen who crossed into Dorne from Essos while fleeing from the dragonlords of Valyria. She successfully led the Rhoynar refugees into Dorne and unified the realm under Martell rule.”

Her name was Nymeria, a warrior-queen of the Rhoynar. Her fame was so great that Oberyn Martell – a direct descendant – named one of his own daughters after her. Lest not forget Arya, who was so fascinated with legends about past warrior-queens, like Nymeria, that she chose that name for her direwolf. Sansa briefly glanced at her sister, who smirked just a little at the mention of who her direwolf was named for.

Another lord spoke up. “But it was the local king Mors Martell who married her and united their forces. They conquered and unified all of Dorne.”

“I am not in the habit of conquering anyone, Lord Hornwood. Need I remind you that it was I who fought for the independence of the North? For nearly four years, I have done well by this entire region—all without a man at my side and will continue to do so for many more to come.” As Lord Hornwood settled down, Sansa turned all of her focus to the others. “My lords and ladies, I understand it is my duty as a woman – and Queen – to marry and produce heirs. When and if I do so, it will be on _my_ terms.”

Sansa knew the moment the words left her mouth that she would be upsetting some people—and she was correct in that assumption.

Rubbing her belly had started to become something of a habit of hers. Especially now. She started doing so without realizing it. Her anxiety was building. She didn’t necessarily mind confrontations but she did try to avoid it whenever possible.

Arya only gave her a look, one that clearly asked _what are you waiting for_ , so she took a breath, another rub of her baby bump, and spoke once more.

She was terrified; rightfully so. “I ought to have been wholly honest before.” _Just do it_ , she scolded herself. “As many of you are aware, Ser Jaime Lannister was recently wed to Lady Commander, Brienne of Tarth and I was invited to attend their nuptials. What you are _not_ aware of is the parting gift I left with. I did not know it at the time but I was… with child… “ The rubbing of her belly continued and just for a brief moment, mayhap her own wishful thinking, she thought she felt the babe kick her; it’s didn’t.

The roar of voices was almost deafening. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. A shroud of black started to cloud her. She started feeling excessively nervous, fearful, apprehensive, and worried. Sansa knew ahead of time they wouldn’t accept this.

She began to fidget with her nails and picked at cuticles of each one. She never used to pick her nails before. She then started chewing on her bottom lip, sawing her upper teeth back and forth across it until it started to feel tender. It was either the pregnancy or this anxiety that brought on a bout of nausea. She was beginning to notice the bile that had risen in her throat.

Noticing her sister in such distress, Arya frowned. She was quite worried. All this shouting and pointing fingers at her lack of moral responsibility was irritating her.

Everyone stopped was a dagger wiped by their heads and buried itself in a wooden beam.

Sansa mouthed a polite _thank you_. She normally had a rigid code of conduct, dictating how herself and others should behave. Sometimes she criticized herself too harshly whenever she failed to follow these rules.

The silence was more deafening than the shouting.

Another lord spoke up, one Sansa wasn’t familiar with. “Your grace, if you were taken against your will then your soldiers are to blame for not keeping you protected. You have many loyal men here at your disposal. Say the word and we will march to King’s Landing.”

“I do not need to be minded or cared for or watched over as if I were a child,” she barked, “Need I remind you that I am the Lady of Winterfell and your _queen_. What transpired was of my own doing. The choices made were not forced upon me but mutual. I now bare the proof of that.”

“You don’t expect us to accept a natural-born child over a trueborn one as the heir to the North do you?” _Natural-born_ was a polite way of saying bastard, something many people were against here in the North. What may be acceptable in other cultures was considered taboo in this one. “Your grace, if you were to marry, and produce a child with your husband, that son will have more right to inheritance than this… bastard.”

“My _child_ —” her tone of voice was very threatening, laced with a venom she hadn’t even recognized in herself before now. Sansa felt surprisingly protective. “—will be brought into this world as a Stark. As the ruling monarch in this kingdom that I gained independence for, it is within my right to legitimize this child.” She knew people weren’t going to like that proclamation. Leaning in closer, her tone dropped. “And if I so much as hear the term bastard being whispered in these halls, that person who utters it will be answering directly to me.”

~.~.~.~.~

This was not the first time that Arya held her sister’s hair back while Sansa upchucked; it wouldn’t be the last either.

The secret was out.

While Sansa no longer had to worry about whether or not the dress she wore was going to conceal her belly, many northern lords did not understand her decision—and yet some even rallied behind her, calling it a bold choice.

An unwed mother with a child conceived out of wedlock? 

It was time they took a page from Daenerys and _broke the wheel_ —so to speak. In Sansa’s mind anyway. She knew getting them on the same page wouldn’t be as easy as simply declaring her child legitimate.

The babe needed a father. It needed Podrick. Arya knew this and she was fairly certain that Sansa knew this as well. While Rickard Ryswell would indeed be a suitable choice and ensue the child wouldn’t be looked at as a bastard it’s entire life, this would not be satisfactory enough. After enduring an engagement to Joffrey and a marriage to Ramsey, entering into a marriage of convenience just because she was pregnant would leave Sansa depressed.

Arya handed her sister something to wipe her mouth off with then stood back. “Sansa, you would forgive me for almost anything right?” If she didn’t say anything, it would weigh on her. Arya wasn’t in the habit of unnecessary guilt.

“What are these circumstances that you need forgiveness for?” Raising her brow, Sansa marched over to the table and poured herself a glass of cold water.

“Roughly three weeks ago now, I had a raven sent to King’s Landing…” Arya mentally braced herself; she saw the slight curved raise on Sansa’s face. “…under your seal…telling Jon everything, including about the baby…”

Sansa’s face reddened. “Arya! You had no right to send that letter! My business is my own!” Now she was torn between being furious and terrified.

If Jon got ahold of that letter then he likely told Podrick about the babe but that depended all on the level of detail put in the letter. Her sister did say she told him everything so there was no doubt that Podrick knew. She paced away from the table and tried not to start panicking at the idea.

“Be sensible,” she tried to suggest—she hadn’t realized saying this to a pregnant woman, even if that woman was her own sister, was not the smartest choice. “He would have found out sooner or later. You said yourself you couldn’t marry Rickard. I did the only logical thing to do. Be mad at me all you want but you know I’m right. You don’t think Podrick would _want_ to be here?” To her, she was doing the right thing. Sansa could hate her now but she knew there would be an apology later—once her sister came to her senses.

 _Of course I do… but you don--_ Swerving around, she added, “You don’t realize the implications of your actions. He’s a member of the Royal Guard, Arya! They are sworn for life. Their priorities are to the crown.” Sansa fully realized she was about to start crying; hormones, anger, sadness—it didn’t matter. “You have this insatiable habit of meddling in other peoples’ affairs. Why can’t you just for _once_ in your life leave mine out of it? If I choose to raise my child alone— _without_ a husband—you should respect that. I’ve already made my decision. You told me you would support that decision. You said you agreed with me.”

“I do!” Arya exclaimed.

Sansa nearly broke. “You just don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me in a way I _do_ because right now… your logic isn’t making any sense to me.”

For a brief moment, Sansa looked away so she could use the sleeve of her dress to brush her eyes. “… _All you have to do is say the word. Just say the word and I’ll walk away—from knighthood, from the Royal Guard, from King’s Landing…_ ” she repeated Podrick’s own words as if they were a wound on her soul. “As he once shielded me, I wanted him to do the same for Jon. It wasn’t goodbye indefinitely; it was farewell for now.”

The further she listened, the more Arya began to realize; “Sansa, I—wait, where are off to?” Her eyes bounced about the room as her sister completely tuned out.

But Sansa didn’t answer. Once her wolf pelt was hanging off her shoulder, she was waltzing across the room and leaving through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was initially planning on having Podrick make his return at the end of this chapter but I decided to hold off. I know for some of you this is agonizing. Good, MUAUAUAUA! lol, I kid. He'll show up soon. I promise <3 But now everyone knows Sansa's reasons for doing what she did. I genually feel for her. To have so much in her life destroyed and then to find true happiness again only for her to give that up so that person could find his own is pure selfless act on her part. She's been hurting for years because of it. Hang on, baby girl, your knight in armor is arriving soon <3


	20. Confessions; part the second - Destiny Intervenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,  
>  And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”_  
> ― William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright y'all, this is it: THE REUNION! Ahhhh! I'm so excited!!

The scenery around her changed from one moment to the next. Gone were the stone walls and marbled floors and iron beams and creaking wooden doors—there before her stood the heart tree, and within it the face carved by the Children of the Forest.

Weirwood trees were a species of deciduous, found throughout Westeros; with its white bark and five-pointed, blood-red leaves. They leaked red sap out of deep cuts within the trunk – giving the appearance the tree was weeping tears of blood. The heart trees were inviolable in the religious conviction of the Old Gods of the Forest, and likely the nearest thing to an authentic shrine this religion possessed.

Six thousand years prior, during the Andal Invasion, a majority of these trees had been cut down in southern Westeros in attempt to suppress adulation of the Old Gods in preference of the Faith of the Seven, the Andals’ new religion. The only weirwoods still standing are a small handful in castle Godswoods that had been converted to ordinary gardens as an alternative for being demolished all together. Since the Andals never conquered the North and therefore couldn’t input their own religion, the Old Gods are still highly worshiped there and the trees still grow yet are far more prevalent Beyond the Wall.

These trees can live an extremely long time if left undisturbed, like to one in Winterfell, which is thousands of years old. Even dead ones, like the one at House Blackwood’s seat of Raventree Hall, remained freestanding for many thousands of years.

Weirwoods are utilized for conveying witness to indispensable rituals—such as a matrimony, or when an oath was taken; recruits of the Night’s Watch typically speak their vows either in a sept or before a heart tree (Jon Snow grew up in the North; his Gods were of the Old Gods of the Forest; he chose to take his vows before the heart tree at Castle Black)--and it was considered impossible to lie in the presence of the heart tree.

The Godswood of Winterfell consisted of three acres of forest within its walls. Its multitude of trees created a dense canopy—ash, chestnut, elm, hawthorn, ironwood, oak, sentinel, and soldier pine. Standing upright in the center of the grove stood a weirwood enclosed by a pool of water. The Godswood is bordered by walls and accessible through an iron gate and warmed by natural hot springs.

It dated back ten thousand years and according to folklore, Bran the Builder constructed this castle all around the grove and frequently prayed here. Prince Jacaerys Velaryon married Sara Snow here, and Lord Cregan Stark wed Alysanne Blackwood in 132 AC.

Sansa Stark appreciated the antiquity of the forest though she hadn’t been through in quite a while. Many years, in fact. Her marriage to Ramsey took place here. Theon Greyjoy died here. What should had been a relaxing place, something that brought her comfort, had been the source of emotional pain for the longest time. Returning here felt akin to the embrace of an old friend. Even though she’d be gone for a while, the Weirwood was always here waiting. The Old Gods would always be here. It was as if she had never left in the first place.

Carefully of her step, Sansa trudged through the dense forest, the snow crumbling and cracking under the weight of her boots. She eventually found herself standing before the heart tree and gazing into the bleak eyes of the face carved into its white bark. With a soft exhale, she cradled her belly then thumbed a few of her fingers over the protruding navel.

The winter had not subsided just yet so there was still this wintry chill in the area. Arya had been born during the winter. Sansa was a summer child. Westeros’s climates changed from a subarctic wasteland in the farthest north to a desert climate the further south one travels. The furthest north still sees light snowfall even during the longest summers while further south, like Dorne, almost never see snow—even during the most severe winters. Both Westeros and Essos usually experience seasons that vary in length, some lasting years each though the length of these seasons is entirely unpredictable. Since Westeros extended much further north than Essos, it typical saw more long winters while Essos was typically warmer.

The winters in the North are exceedingly brutal. Non-perishable foods are set aside and stored for the next winter. Most castles, like Winterfell, have constructed elaborate greenhouses which allow for the growing of vegetables even among the harshest winters. The fact Winterfell has been built over natural hot springs helps keep things warm. Though despite all the preparations, famine and starvation were not uncommon. This contributes to the decline in the northern population despite its vast size.

There was suggestion these long seasons stemmed from a near-mythical event called the Long Night that took place eight thousand years ago. It was believed the White Walkers used the cover of winter in order to parasitize Westeros. Once defeated in the War for the Dawn, they were thrown back furthest north but the seasons never recovered to former selves. Maesters argued otherwise; they were high skeptical from the beginning but they couldn’t argue the presence of the Wall.

White Walkers weren’t a thing to worry about any longer – thank the Gods – but brutal winters were. She tugged at her wolf pelt then tucked her arms around her belly as yet another breeze swept through the foliage. _What are you doing, idiot?_ She glanced back over her right shoulder. She thought about going back. Maybe in the grand scheme of things, Sansa just needed to get away for a bit. She needed time and space. Partly because she was furious with Arya. Partly because she knew Arya was right and she was just furious with herself.

Her eyes were no longer focused on the path leading back from the Weirwood but now at her belly. She hadn’t known songs for some time but at that exact moment, she was remembering; “High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts. The ones she had lost and the ones she had found and the ones who loved her the most…” Dozens of others Sansa could be singing but it was that one she remembered the most.

__________

_With one hand holding tight to the furs around his waist, Podrick retrieved a second and a third log to throw into the fire. The renewed spark would ensure they remained warm. Despite the hot springs spread warmth through the stone halls, there was still no shortage of chill. Brienne chastised him once for not keeping watch over their bonfire; the flames died out because he was too sleep-deprived to stay awake. They could have froze in their sleep because of his lapse in judgement. Podrick felt horrible so he swore that wouldn’t happen again._

_Just as he took a step away from the hearth, a pair of arms encircled his mid-section. Sansa propped her chin against his shoulder. Sometimes he couldn’t allow himself to believe she was here. Her presence felt like his mind tricking him into a false sense of reality. But then he smiled and his left hand moved of hers and he was for sure this was real._

_Turning his head just slightly, Podrick smiled warmly; “Did you sleep well?” His fingers gently thumbed over the back of her hand. He responded in kind to the kiss she gave him._

_“Hm… yes, yes I did,” she responded, then nuzzled her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his musky scent she always knew him for. She would remember that smell for years to come._

_Podrick pressed their foreheads together, smiling, “Good.” His lips gently pressed against her own before his whole body turned towards her. She was still holding some furs to her chest. “Did you want to return to the celebration? I’m sure it’s still going on…” He reached out, tucking a loose strand of red hair behind her right ear._

_“I think I’d rather stay here with you.”_

_Nodding, he said, “Dance with me.”_

__________

She wrapped her arms around herself, imagining it was Podrick’s arms holding her; “The ones who’d been gone for so very long, she couldn’t remember their names…”

She could still smell him. She remembered every bit of it. Almost like… like burnt amber. _That_ was the musky smell she was so found of. If Sansa shut her eyes even for a moment, she could picture him standing there, and then that smell would assault her sinuses.

“…they spun her around on the damp old stones. Spun away all her sorrow and pain…” Her eyes had clouded with tears. Any minute now, she knew they would be falling.

__________

_Sansa blinked. “What?”_

_“Dance with me.” He took an inch back and held out his hand._

_She glanced about the room, staring at the fire for a good few seconds, then refocused her gaze on his face. He didn’t look confused or anxious—as she did. “But… we have nothing to dance to…”_

_“That doesn’t matter.” Taking a step forwards, Podrick reached for the furs covering her naked body and pushed them away. He marveled at her body as she was left exposed. “I am asking you to dance with me.”_

_The sudden exposure should have made her shrivel up. Be in the warmth of the fire or the comforting presence of her sworn sword’s squire, Sansa never felt better. So she did as requested and gave over her hand. He whisked her into his arms almost immediately._

_They danced… and he was humming into her ear…_

__________

Even now, Sansa could remember dancing with him that night. There was no music—just her and Podrick and the warmth the fire provided. He was responsible for bringing so much joy back into her life. It was hard to imagine a world without him there in it.

It was becoming cathartic—rubbing her hands over her belly; “…they danced through the day and into the night through the snow that swept through the hall…”

Even if he couldn’t be there, Sansa promised herself that their child would know of him. And she would dance with that babe just as Podrick danced with her.

“…from winter to summer then winter again ‘til the walls did crumble and fall…”

~.~.~.~.~

The moment she returned from the Godswood, Sansa stole away from everything—from the curious glances, the questioning stares, the disapproving looks; from _everything_. Although she realized accepting her decision was not going to be something everyone could do, she remained firm in her conviction.

There was something she needed to do.

Once safely inside the sanctity of her quarters, Sansa fled to her desk, pulled out a piece of parchment, dipped her quill in ink, and started to write.

__________

 _~~Dear Podrick,~~ _ _~~My dearest heart~~_

_Podrick,_

_I know our communication has not been the best. I realize the promises we made to each other and I realize how broken they’ve become. The truth is, our lives are completely different. Many years ago, we each made decisions that set us apart and the people we are have compelled us to honor those decisions. It was unfair of me to hold you back the way I did but I was madly enthralled by you and found myself saying and doing things I would otherwise never see myself doing._

_I did not want to leave. I did not want you to leave. I told you to accept the offer King Jon was giving you because I assumed that is what you wanted. I thought I was being selfless by telling you to act on it. It never even occurred to me the reality of this decision until I returned home. Seeing you again after all those years was a dream come true. You have always made me happy… happier than I ever thought I could ever be…_

_By now I am sure you must be aware of my... ~~condition~~ situation…_

_I should have been more forward about it. The moment I found out I was having your child, I should have been completely honest. I keep insisting that keeping such a monumental thing from you was a good decision. You had your life in King’s Landing and I have my life here. I realized how wrong I was being. I was being selfish. For both your sake and the sake of our unborn child. Know that I love you and always have and would never willingly try to cause you any sort of pain. I hope you don’t think me cruel or malicious._

_Please don’t do anything rash. My cousin needs you. And I need you to remain where you are. Our child will know of you. I swear it. I pray one day you will meet him or her and you can be proud of what we made together._

_All my love,_

_Sansa._

__________

 _Do not start crying again,_ she counseled herself. If she launched into yet another bout of hysterics, she may well not ever stop. There was no explaining how she managed to keep it together as she wrote the letter which was something of a half-apology/half-command? A life without her child’s father involved seemed almost inevitable at this point. Sansa resigned herself to that long before deciding to write this letter.

Just as before, she gawked at the flames as she considered whether or not it was in her best interest to dispatch this letter to rookery or to feed it the fire and watch with sadness as the parchment melted into ash. There was probably not right or wrong answer here.

Exhaling, Sansa folded the parchment and stamped it with the house sigil. _Do not start crying again_. She got as far as the hearth with the letter in hand and held it out over the open flame. She was going to do it. She could feel the heat rising. It was starting to burn. If she didn’t do this now, she never would. But she looked at the seal, thought about the contents of the letter, then decided— _no_ , she couldn’t. The moment that letter retracted, her heart started to pound. She was feeling slightly nauseous. Was she going to get sick? Sansa put a hand to her belly. It felt like tiny bubbles of gas.

The letter tight in hand, she stalked out of the room with such determination.

The rookery—that was her destination. She couldn’t be distracted any longer. Servants went about their day as always, as did the scullery maids, the cooks, the commoners—anyone else there. Sansa paid neither of them attention. But just as she rounded another corner and stepped outside, she caught a glimpse of her sister standing there on the bridge between the armory and the Great Keep, just beyond the East Gate.

Sansa waltzed over, taking position beside her sister; “How long have you been out here?” She asked, not once ever looking at Arya. The girls stood a good eight inches from each other—Sansa being the tallest—so one would always have to look up while the other looked down.

“I’m not sure. Long enough to watch you coming back from the Godswood,” she retorted. Looking away from the courtyard below, Arya glanced over to her sister and that is when she noticed the sealed letter clutched in Sansa’s left hand. “Have you reached enlightenment yet?” She smirked, knowing such a comment would annoy her sister but she was all for it.

“That isn’t funny, Arya.” Changing the subject, Sansa gestured to the letter. “I may not be able to change what happened but I owe Podrick… something.”

Arya faced her sister but did not turn her body. “Are you concerned about his reaction?”

 _That is the least of my concerns…_ “No…”

“You never were great at being truthful, Sansa.” There was a momentary pause before she exhaled and changed her entire tone. “I did what I did for a reason. You know that right?”

“I know.”

“So… are you still mad at me?”

Sansa briefly looked at the letter in her hand. “I don’t know, maybe… no… perhaps—I guess…” _I can’t really be mad at her for doing the right thing,_ she assured himself. She moved over the letter in her hand and she just about crumbled it up in her palm but thought different. Then she thumbed her fingers over her belly until it settled just north of her naval. “There I was standing before the Weirwood and just for a moment, I thought the babe had moved…”

This peaked Arya’s interest. “Is it…?”

“No. I do not think so. Not yet.” She seemed depressed about it. It probably would give her some comfort right now if she could feel her babe moving in her womb. “I should probably go.”

She turned away.

Sansa must have made the walk across the bridge thousands of times before but taking even one step forwards now felt so heavy. If she could only make it to the rookery then she could go back inside, return to her solar, and maybe enjoy a cup of tea. A distraction, or two—away from all of this. Even a good book. She could settle in with a good book and be happy about it.

She put one foot in front of the other, and the another, and finally another. Yet no sooner had she gone a few paces forwards—

The gate!

Someone was at the East Gate. _Probably nothing_ , Sansa told herself. It could have been the hunting party. Gods know they could use some more food. But then, she heard something else—a gasp from behind her, and then Arya calling to her.

What she saw at the gates, atop a painted horse, was not a sight she would ever forget. For just a moment, Sansa forgot how to breathe.

__________

_The rite for making a new member of the Royal Guard can often vary. It was generally a sacred and decorous affair in which the knight genuflects before the king and delivers his vows. This newest member might then be anointed by the High Septon in the names of the Seven, simply referred to as the Faith._

_It was customary for the knight to be cloaked in white by the King or even the Lord Commander himself – in this case, herself – but Podrick had only had his measurements at the armory that very morning and so he would not have a completed set of gold armor for some time. In the past, the Royal Guard would typically have the emblem of the royalty’s house sigil indented into the chest plate. While once it had been the House Targaryen sigil, now it would be once more._

_Sansa had things explained to her so she would easily understand. She mostly knew what it meant when Podrick said the words—it meant she may or may not see him again or at least for a long time. She knew this when she approached his quarters sometime after mid-day, which is why she staid her hand from knocking. She knew she wanted inside, and she knew he would answer and beckon her in. They would almost certainly end up making love again, and quite possibly again after that, and she would not bear it. She returned to her guest quarters in the interim where she would await._

_They stood waiting._

_As the King and Queen stood in full regalia, standing next to them on either side was Ser Jaime and Lady Commander Brienne. Others were spread out._

_Sansa was patient. Her heart was pounding. This was equally the best and the worst._

_And then… the door opened. In walked Podrick, as gallant and as brave as ever. With his head held high and his stride nothing but confidence. Sansa reminded herself how this was a good thing. He deserved this. There was no one better than him._

_They locked eyes only once. She smiled and he smiled right back. Then he took a knee. It was Brienne who unsheathed Oathkeeper and crossed it over Podrick’s shoulders, from right to left, and back again._

_And he spoke his vows; “I, Podrick Payne, hereby swear on my honor and my allegiance to protect the King and his family…”_

_Sansa looked nowhere else. She didn’t dare to. Her focus was solely on Podrick. Oh how she adored him. Even if she knew the day’s end would mean an end to their affair._

_“…I will do my duties until death, and through that time, keep all secrets of the King safe from spread…”_

_He was slipping. Further and further away. Her grip was loosening. On everything. The days they spent together just trying to fit comfortably and the nights they’d spend locked in embrace, making love and then holding each other until one fell asleep…_

_“…I will not speak unless spoken to, and I will defend the King’s land or pay the price…”_

_She commanded herself to stay strong—for herself and for him._

_With the last bit, Sansa felt the grip she had come undone; “…I will master the gate, pluck the bow, handle the blade and serve my realm: for now and forever…”_

_Now and forever—those last words. They were so final. She didn’t even notice the applause nor want to see anyone else; none of them mattered. With those words, it was done. They were done._

_He rose and he looked straight at her and all she could do was swallow her heartbreak and be happy for him._

__________

Is it--? Could it be--? Sansa’s heart was in her throat. She didn’t move. She just kept telling her mind that what she was seeing couldn’t possibly be actually there. Sansa blinked; yet, he was still there.

And he was staring right back at her.

It took several seconds—and it felt like several hours, to be honest—before a stable boy came forth as Podrick dismounted his horse. It was only then that Sansa remembered how to walk again. First one foot forwards and then the other one and then another one before she was practically skipping down the bridge to the nearest stairwell she could find.

Sansa nearly jumped the last few steps.

They stood silent for a good while. She was acutely aware of the pulse in her neck. She would also swear on her life that the bubbly feeling was back. Though she couldn’t be sure of the last bit. It was Podrick would made the first move. He reached for her, using his fingers to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

That broke her.

He caught her as she lept into him, circling his arms tight around her. He hugged her close and tight and even spun her around. He didn’t even want to put her down. But he did eventually, hardly aware of the audience that had gathered. Podrick used his thumbs to brush the tears from her eyes. She grasped at his shoulders and then his arms and tried not to start a total meltdown.

Podrick was on the verge of crying, too, but he seemed better at managing it; “I rode here as fast as I was able to.” His eyes traveled further south of her face until at last they settled on the slightly distinguishable bump in Sansa’s dress. He reached for it and put his hand there. She clasped hers over his. It was then that a few tears came loose. “We have a babe. A child. I… I can hardly believe it… “ His head lifted.

“Jon—my cousin—he, he released you…?”

He nods. “Yes. I—” Podrick was at a brief loss of words. He continued to thumb over Sansa’s belly for quite some time though, relishing in such a feeling. But then he recoiled, taking a step back from her, and removing his sword from the sheath. He laid it at her feet as he brought himself to one knee. “I offer my services to you, your grace, your queen… my love. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New..”

Audience be damned.

Her heart may be pounding and through the tears choked up in her throat, she managed; “And I vow, ser knight, _my_ knight… my love… that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New…” Unlike before, Sansa knew the words this time. “Arise..”

Upon arising to his feet, their lips met in unbridled passion.

It was at that very moment that Podrick decided he would never be leaving her side again. With his vow, it assured him that he never would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap! This chapter took me what felt like _forever_ and a half to write! To be fair, I was probably going through a lot emotionally at the time so it took longer than I planned for this. But that's also likely the reason behind so much emotion in this chapter as well. I wanted it to be emotional anyway. I mean, come on now... Podrick is back in Sansa's life! It took, what, eleven chapters? I really hope y'all enjoyed this one :)


	21. Kissed by Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“When we were born, nobody gave us a lesson on how to breathe—we just did. The same thing happens with love. Nobody tells you how to love—we just do.”_ ― Connor Chalfant

_Podrick’s belly rumbles for the next ten miles on the road. He tried concentrating on other things so his mind wouldn’t fixate on the fact he hasn’t eaten anything all day. Brienne regularly did the cooking—mostly because he was horrid at it—so he took up the hunting; except, he wasn’t very efficient with the hunting bit, either. There was rare occasion he would encounter some stroke of luck and snare a rabbit. At least he remembered to remove the skin this time. And he was getting better at the sword, too._

_The rumbling increases as they close in on the next inn along the road. Brienne made it vital to sleep in a warm bed whenever possible—though Podrick was quite accustomed to the rough patchiness of wet grass by now and the constant need to keep a fire going so he and Brienne stayed warm throughout the night. Today was damp and somewhat cold and he had been walking for—well, he lost track. Point is, Podrick was more than ready for a hot meal, possibly an equally warm bath – Gods know he needs it – and a good night’s rest. His body ached terribly but he didn’t complain once._

_As they passed on closer, the warm, salty aroma of what he could only hope was pork filled his senses. The fragrance was a pleasant odor, unlike the musty bowls of soup and crusty bread he would have on occasion whilst squiring for Ser Cedrick Payne._

_The first thing he noted were the horses tied to posts; “Must be good food if it’s crowded,” he remarked. He couldn’t tell what they were cooking up but it sure smelled delicious… whatever it was._

_Brienne and Podrick hurried in rather quickly once the horse was tied up. They were treated to a table towards the back of the inn and a serving wench brought them each a plate of salted pork with a side of hearty wheat bread. He could tell it was freshly baked and he wasted no time in helping himself. Brienne picked here and there at her food but after observing the way her squire was scoffing down his meal, she felt a twinge of sympathy so allowed him to enjoy himself first as not to come off as greedy in any way._

_A second, younger serving wench came through the aisle with a pitcher of ale. The first thing Podrick noticed about her was the youthfulness in her face and the second was the way that beige dress hugged her frame. He didn’t even pay much attention as she poured the drink and she wasn’t looking at him either. Not that it really mattered in the end because he wasn’t looking for anything. Podrick learned very quickly to always been observant of his surroundings and the meant studying the faces of the people he encountered. He did smile politely at her and she managed to very brief counter but then turned away._

_Ale wasn’t his drink but that isn’t why he chose to start drinking it anyway. Even as the girl walked off and he lifted the cup to his mouth, Podrick’s eyes were scanning over the rim of the wood cup to the pair of knights at the other end of the rows of tables. There was something very peculiar about it. There were more of them—eight to ten of them at least._

_It was when the serving wench double back to another table did Podrick’s heart begin to raise. A voice! A very familiar voice—though far more grown than he remembered. His cup slowly lowered but he was still able to get a clear image as the figure in question peaked out a tad from the booth she was sitting in. There was no doubt in Podrick’s mind that he was staring at Sansa Stark. She had dyed her hair but he was confident it was her._

_When telling Brienne, he lowered his voice; “My lady…” and she looked up at him, almost annoyed in a way and had it been any other time, he might have shirked back, feeling insignificant, but not today. “… it’s Sansa Stark. D-Don’t look…”_

_“Are you sure?” Asked Brienne in a whisper._

_Podrick gave a small, subtle nod. “She’s dyed her hair but it’s her---she’s sitting with Petyr Baelish…”_

_“Littlefinger?!”_

_“There’s a bunch of knights with them.”_

_Brienne looked surprised and slightly angered. “A bunch?!” She needed to know exactly how many there were because she just knew she would have to fight them. Simply saying a bunch wasn’t helpful. “What’s a bunch? Six, ten, twenty?”_

_“T-Ten, I think.” He rambled off a number so quickly that he wasn’t sure exactly how many knights there actually were in truth; he had only seen those two in the back and only a few more since. “… too many. My lady, I-I don’t think this is the right time---” Podrick’s tone changed. He took note how Brienne was reaching for Oathkeeper and he got it in his head they would be fighting their way out of here._

_She interrupted; “—ready the horses,” she commanded._

_“We only have one horse.”_

_“Find more.”_

~.~.~.~.~

A sworn sword was someone who devoted their life and service to a particular lord. This was sometimes permanent but often temporary as they often joined a lord for specific purpose only to be released from service afterwards once that purpose had been fulfilled.

Brienne once sworn an oath of fealty to Catelyn Stark, and then again to Catelyn’s daughter, Sansa, and wasn’t released from service until it was Jon who needed her next.

There was nothing impulsive about Podrick. But there was zero ounce of control when he trotted through the East Gate that afternoon. His entire ride up the King’s Road was filled with thoughts of varying degree over what he would do or say once he got to see Sansa again. That’s what he did—he considered all of options _before_ even acting upon them.

Those red waves, those plump lips, and the clear observance of a bump in her belly caused Podrick to lose almost all control of his inhibitions. Swearing fealty to Sansa and their babe may have been an impulsive decision but it wasn’t anything he regretted. The only thing he regretted was not being here sooner.

Sansa had been rinsing out her hair and running her fingers through it to comb out any tangles. Her back was turned so she didn’t notice Podrick standing there in the doorway with his arms crossed. Any outside observer would take one look at them and never once question the genuineness of his feelings for the Lady. Every once in a while, she’d turn her body just so and he would get a brief glimpse of her small yet obvious rounded belly. His heart would skip a beat each and every time.

She didn’t even know he was standing there until he took a step inside and shut the door behind him. Sansa lifted her head just as her fingers were tugging at the ends of her saturated hair. “Have you been there long?” She began the process of squeezing out the excess water.

“Long enough,” Podrick answered, “but I would never get tired of watching you”. He then crossed the room, grabbed both sides of her face, and planted a firm kiss on her mouth. It wasn’t at all rough but gentler and full of passion. “I will never, _ever_ take this for granted. I’ve already missed so much…” His right thumb brushed over the left corner of her lips.

Sansa forced a smile; she was trying not to cry. “I assumed you would feel guilty being in the Kingsguard while knowing I was having your child so I made the foolish choice not to tell you,” she confessed and perhaps there were some tears there in her voice. “It shouldn’t have been a matter of choice. That should have been adequate for me. But I wasn’t thinking and if that letter hadn’t arrived, you might not ever know.”

“You know how I grew up. You knew how it was as a child. Even if I hadn’t known until after the babe was born, I would have found a way to ensure our child didn’t grow up as I did,” he tells her. His fingers comb through her damp hair. “No matter what you could have done, it doesn’t make me love you or our child any less.”

His words always had a way of soothing her. Once again, she was smiling, this time genuine, and she reached for her belly, perhaps wanting to feel the same flutter as before.

“Has there been any movement yet?” He asked.

Sansa shook her head, sadly; “The midwife says it’s still too early.” She also hoped the midwife was wrong. She had never wanted anything more lately than to feel her child. A child she secretly prayed was a boy. After a moment of fantasizing over it, Sansa broke off in order to retrieve something from her desk. “Here.” In her right hand was the letter she had written for him earlier. The one she never had a chance to send. He looked a bit confused when she hadn’t it to him. “Before you came back, I was going to send this to King’s Landing. It explains everything.”

~.~.~.~.~

_There was an inn just shy of thirty miles or so from Castle Black. They meant to keep on but the horses were exhausted and Podrick insisted they get Sansa into something warmer. Theon had long parted from them, arguing that Jon Snow would have him hanged the second he walked through that gate._

_Brienne helped herself to a hot meal consisting of beef stew and grain bread. The hearty meal would warm her belly enough for prep against the harsh climate the further they progressed North. Sansa had been given a room to herself and a bath warmed for her while some of the scullery maids had her clothing washed and cleaned. Podrick opted to join Brienne but once he finished, he asked to be alone for what remained of the evening. Odd, Brienne thought, but she permitted him leave._

_Podrick excused himself to what he thought was the room he shared with Brienne. In his defense, the rooms were quite adjacent of each other and looked remarkably similar from the outside. It didn’t occur to him that he walked himself into the wrong room until he heard a gasp followed by a pale shriek. He turned away rather quickly, concealing the embarrassment now flushing his cheeks._

_Neither of them moved for what felt like hours when in reality it was more like a few minutes. Eventually, it was Sansa who made the first move. She attempted to stand up and reach for something to cover herself up with but couldn’t quite reach so it was Podrick who handed it to her—keeping his eyes shut the entire time, however. He claimed he never saw anything but even if he did, he was gentleman enough to lie about it. His heart was pounding mercilessly._

_Brienne would never forgive him if she knew. And he was deeply ashamed. “M-My l-l-lad-dy… “ He stuttered, finding words quite difficult when his head was spinning, “… I-I apologize. I just… I th-thought. I mean, I a-assumed—”_

_“— **your** room is adjacent to mine,” she sternly reminded him._

_Podrick nodded. “R-Right. Of course.” He probably should have left right then but he loitered for some reason, grating both himself and the young woman behind him; he could hear her exasperated sigh._

_“You **were** planning on letting me dress in private were you not?” Given her experiences, Sansa was not keen on having him in the room right now. An honest mistake—if it was that—was acceptable but this was borderline annoying. “Surely I don’t need assistance for that.”_

_His words were jumbled. “Y-Yes! Of-of course…” He immediately reached for the door handle but stumbled. As if he couldn’t have been more embarrassed. He just hoped Sansa wouldn’t be saying anything about this unfortunate incident to Brienne; she’d have his head for sure._

_“Trouble with the door there?”_

_He shakes his head. “Oh. N-No, no. I got it.” And eventually he did._

_While still keeping his eyes adverted and his head hung low, Podrick slinked out of the room like a dog with its tails between its legs._

~.~.~.~.~

Unlike before with the men-at-arms quarters, Podrick was allowed a more spacious and luxurious quarters within the Winterfell castle itself. Since Sansa had been spending her nights in Ned and Catelyn’s old room, he had taken up residence in one of the bedchambers previously occupied by another Stark family member. He was told it used to belong to Robb Stark, a man Podrick never had the pleasure of meeting and knew nothing about. Sansa never mentioned him and he knew better than to ask about it, fearing he’d be digging up old memories she would want repressed; some things are just far too fragile to discuss openly.

Podrick would have insisted on another room for this reason alone but he had been traveling on the road for nearly a month and he couldn’t really argue when a feathered pillow, warm bed, and cozy fire was offered. Despite the warmth running through these walls, each room had a fireplace. The warmth was not enough to keep its occupants free of the cold throughout the night.

Sitting on the table was the letter from Sansa—unopened, still with the wax seal. Podrick spent the last hour contemplating if he should even open it. She said it should explain everything. But what exactly? There was probably nothing in there he didn’t already know or didn’t need to know. If she was seeking forgiveness from him then she had it—and then some. Podrick didn’t really get mad. Even if he did, he would never hold a grudge against Sansa.

After staring at this letter for what felt like hours, he took a calmed breath then snatched it up. He took one look at it in his hands, thought very seriously about setting it ablaze, then broke through the wax seal.

~.~.~.~.~

_The following morning saw the bitterest of chills. When Podrick stepped outside and took a breath, his lungs instantly hurt. Then he would end up coughing for a bit and Brienne would say something about controlling his breathing better. He adapted to short, swallow breaths instead._

_It was his job to prepare the horses. He made sure they were properly fed and saddled before the women emerged from the inn. Sansa was looking much better than the previous night; he was glad to see some color returning to her cheeks. He’d been worried about her all night. Much of the reason he hadn’t slept much. He wouldn’t let on about that, however._

_Brienne was quite able to get herself into the saddle of her horse without issue. Podrick waited patiently just to the left of the horse Sansa would be riding. Her brow arched when he didn’t move an inch. She even cleared her throat and still, he stayed there. He was beginning to feel this intense weight as her blue eyes stared at him. He didn’t know if he should be looking away or not. Their accidental encounter last night left a lasting impression imprinted in his brain._

_Sansa reached past him for the reins but soon noticed how he cupped his hands just below the left stirrup. He wordlessly offered her assistance into her saddle. She seemed very hesitant at first but then braced her right hand on his shoulder, stepped into his hands, and hoisted herself into the saddle._

_Brienne had started off first. Podrick and Sansa were following behind her. They rode close to each other the entire way, either because he chooses to stay back to keep an eye on her or simply because he wanted to be riding that close to her. No matter the reason, she kept her eyes down and off right, purposely avoiding him. She wouldn’t explain the abrupt rush of heat to her cheeks nor the pitter-patter in her chest._

~.~.~.~.~

Podrick had been thinking about it for the past hour. The rest of the castle had been asleep but here he was the only still wide awake—panicking, shuffling his feet, pacing back and forth on the hardwood floor until he was sure he’d walk a hole through it if he kept going any longer. He kept pondering a million things that could go wrong: someone could see him coming; he could be spotted before he even reached her door. Sansa might not even answer. He could be standing there looking like a complete idiot.

Simply walking down that imposing hallway, thinking about those cohesive display of emotions conveyed on his face—Podrick could hardly take another step without needing to remember how to breathe. He was constantly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Even after finally approaching her door, he’d sway slightly from his standing position. He didn’t fidget with his hair, or clothing, or nothing of that sort but he did take to start rubbing his own neck or shoulders.

Even before Sansa opened the door, Podrick was checking over his shoulder as if he feared being followed or clearing his throat quite often. Standing there so awkwardly must have looked strange and confusing, and it was painfully obvious that he had woken her considering her current state of dress.

A tingling sensation in his fingers emerged as he started to fidget a little; “I-I know it’s late… you should probably be getting you rest… b-but… “ His heartbeat was pounding. So much so that he felt a headache coming on. His muscles tightening. “… well, I read your l-letter and I just—erm, I couldn’t w-wait until the morrow, so I…”

“Podrick, I needed you to know,” she admitted, silencing him, “and you have every right to be upset with me about it but I—”

It was his turn to interrupt her.

He went from feeling like a nervous teen, confessing his crush, to a grown man with confidence. All of a sudden, there was this wild surge of energy seemingly coming from nowhere—and everything all at once. Podrick did not hesitate. He narrowed the distance between them until his lips were firmly planted on her mouth. It took her by such surprise that there was no possible way she could suppress the groan coming from her throat and she didn’t even try to.

Podrick pushed into her space more and more until the two of them were concealed within the room and with his right foot, kicked the door closed behind him.


End file.
